The Nightmare of Flanders
by Fionn Whelan
Summary: An epic thriller involving evil Rod and Todd. The Flanders' are wreaking havoc, and only one man can stop them! Contains violence, harsh language, and sex. This story is my chef d'oeuvre, my magnum opus. Review, please.
1. Down at Moe's

This story is far from original. It is my version of the story "Rod and Todd Are Possessed" by "Michael the Seer". It takes place in a plot line similar to Michael's story, but with minor thematic tweaks. Ned has not been…well, molested, and Millhouse was abducted by the boys, against his will, and murdered, and the Kwik-E-Mart robbery did not result in any deaths except those of Apu's wife and favorite child, Gheet. For those of you who have not yet noticed, I have also nabbed a few elements from _The Exorcist_ series(both the original novel by William Peter Blatty as well as the movie _Exorcist _and it's sequel _William Peter Blatty's Exorcist III: Legion, _which was written and directed by Blatty and is loosely based on his novel _Legion_)of which I am a huge fan. Our story resumes now in Moe's Tavern, three days after Millhouse was murdered, where the men of the town have convened to discuss the spat of child murders.

I have decided to place this story five years in the future from the present "Simpsons" storyline. It makes more sense if Rod and Todd were fifteen and thirteen, rather than ten and eight.

Legal crap: I do not own "The Simpsons", and I am not profiting in any way, shape, or form by the writing and publication of this piece. The right to Simpsons belongs to Matt Groening, 20th Century Fox, et al, and the original idea of Rod and Todd going evil after seeing the infamous "Superbowl Nipple Incident" was that of "Michael the Seer". _The Exorcist _and _Legion _are the works of William Peter Blatty, and the movies on which they are based belong to William Friedkin and/or Blatty, and Time Warner. All other ideas, and original characters, copyright Fionn Whelan 2004.

Chapter One: The Meeting of the Men at Moe's

The smoke hung thickly in the air. Hushed, urgent voices blurted out random thoughts.

In Moe's Tavern, in the heart of Springfield, the men of the town discussed the recent events that had shaken theirs lives. Two girls, dead; a cat found hanging in a tree; Millhouse, found with strange letter carved in his gray flesh, dead in the reservoir; and now, a botched shoplifting that had robbed of Apu his wife and his son.

"People, people, please," called Principle Skinner's nasally voice. He was a clarion voice of reason authority in times such as this. An ex-Green Beret, a lieutenant, a school principle for over twenty years, and harsh disciplinarian, that is what he was in these times. Not the insecure, 40-year-old virgin who lived with his mother and whose insecurity and dependence on his mother cost him the love of his life. The men of the town sat at a long, wooden table in the center of the bar. Moe stood behind the bar, cleaning mugs and listening in.

"That's better. Now, let's see who here…" He began to silently take role of who was there. Willie, his janitor and closest thing to a real friend. Seamus, the on-and-off assistant janitor and Willie's arch-rival. Otto, the school bus driver. Homer Simpson, town oaf and hothead. Moe Syzlak, the sleazy bartender. Dr. Julius Hibert, town physician. Reverend Lovejoy, the local minister, and his rival, Father O'Flaherty, the Jesuit. Herman, the weapons dealer. Lenny…Carl…Barney…Captain McCallister. Krusty…Mel…Bumblebee Man…Duff Man…Comic Book Guy…Apu, his eyes red, his mahogany face wet with the tears that were now flowing into his tankard. Kirk VanHousen, his face cheerless, his son dead, his wife having left town…his life was an empty void, and it was fast filling with rage. Sherry and Terrie's father, his face numb, his eyes having long run out of tears, now staring into space. And himself.

"Okay, it seems that everyone we called is here. Except Mr. Flanders, but he said his children weren't feeling well. Very well, I suppose you all are wondering why I called you here tonight."

"Not really," replied Sideshow Mel, "You informed us of your intentions when you called us this afternoon!"

"Well, yes, I guess I did. Then I guess we all know why we're here then. We are here to discuss the threat to our lives, our homes, and particularly, the children of our town. I hardly need to remind you that four children and one woman have been killed, and my condolences go out to their families. And I am particularly thankful that the fathers of the slain have been able to come here, it shows great courage, and strength of character. Now, I will turn the floor over to Herman, who has prepared a PowerPoint presentation.

"Thaaank you Skinner," drawled the one-armed gunman as he walked to the wall and pulled down a screen. He connected his portable computer to a projector, and turned on the projector.

"Okayyy, we have here a town map. The sites of the murders are indicated by the skull and crossbones, with date and approximate time of death and causes. The little outlines indicate the locations where the bodies were found, with the date and time as well. Now, the first two occurred here, on Elm, at about 7:00pm or so, and the bodies were left in the bushes. The victims, two twins, about thirteen years old, had apparently been raped-"

At this point, the twins' father gave a loud cry of anguish and slammed his head on the table. Mr. VanHouten placed his hands on the man's shoulders and tried to comfort him, but to no avail.

"and killed, by blunt head trauma," continued Herman, "and they were found promptly the next morning by Officer Lou. The second murder, Millhouse VanHouten-"

Now Mr. VanHouten began to cry. Small, salty tears.

"Millhouse was found in the reservoir. He had apparently been killed somewhere else, with a power tool of some sort. The latest murders occurred at the Kwik-E-Mart. Manjula Nahasapimepetalon and her infant son Gheet were killed with a silenced 37-magnum in a botched shoplifting attempt."

"Now, our resident Criminologist, Sideshow Mel, will continue for me. Mel?"

"eThank-you, good sir. Now, these murders are seemingly unconnected. Yet, I have noticed a few similarities. First, let us bring the profiles of the two girls. Sherri and Terri were ten year old identical twins."

The faces of the two girls, with their statistics, appeared on the screen. The father of the twins cried inconsolably.

"They attended Springfield elementary, but a half-mile from their neighborhood on Evergreen Terrace. They were killed but a block from their home as they were returning late from athletic prrractice at their school. They were knocked unconscious, as we have discerened from the fist marks on their faces, the dropped school books, and tiny particulates of spittle and blood found on the ground. They were drug into the nearby bushes, violated, and murdered…and left there."

"The boy was last seen at the Kwik-E-Mart, where he was carousing and cavorting with a few classmates. He left for home, but never made it. He was found a few days later, with holes drilled into his ravaged form, and strange sigils carved into him. The police concluded that it was the work of "cultists".

"Finally, the convenience store killings. Two young robbers, one with armed with a pistol, entered the Kwik-E-Mart, one bound and gagged the Apu at gunpoint while the other emptied the cash register. As they left, his family, who had come to visit their father at his workplace, saw what was happening. Manjula screamed for help and was shot at, killing her and the child she was holding. They then drove away in her car, which was found crashed into a tree near the woods."

"Now, let us examine the clues. The DNA from the rape kit used on the twins did not match any know offender, nor did the fingerprints match any found in local or state catalogues, or in national sex offender databases. I would like to note that the sperm count of the fluids was said to be strangely low, just remember that.

Homer chuckled, but went quickly silent at the sight of his companions' serious countenances.

"Also note the way their bodies were arranged when found: though they had been killed by head trauma, their necks had been broken post-mortem, and _ twisted so the heads were facing the wrong way_, a method used in those dispatched by demonic assassins. This ties to the young boy, who was found with strange sigils carved into his skin. Now," he said as the picture of Millhouse, and a close-up of the signs appeared on the screen, "I was curious as to how these signs tied in with what the constable had said about it being a "cult killing". I researched the symbols and lo! They are those found in the satanic pentagram. Thus, this killing is the work of devil-worshippers, or at least, those who wish to give the killing the appearance of one done by such persons."

"The Kwik-E-Mart killings tie with the first murder, but in a different way. The security camera, as well as the few eyewitnesses, confirmed that the killers were of the ages sixteen and fourteen, at the oldest. They were fairly short, yet clearly were neither midget nor dwarf, as they were of normal proportions. The haphazard way they piloted the stolen automobile lends even more credence to this fact. Now, how do these murders connect? Well, I was hoping that the weapon found in the car would have some finger prints, but it had a special tape on the handle, and, as we evinced from the video tape, the culprits were be-gloved. However, judging from the blood smear left on the steering wheel of the vehicle, and the video recording, on of the culprit's hands is approximately the size of one of the handprints found on the girls' bodies. Also, the sets of footprints near the woods and the sets of footprints near the first crime scene match. The same two shoe sizes, the same brand, same stride, and same approximate weight. Also, I mentioned the sperm count found in the semen for a reason: the low count, and hormone levels, indicate that the rapists were barely-pubescent young boys. Thus, the first and third murders are clearly connected."

"The first and second murders are also connected by victim type: white, ten-year-old school children who are in the fourth grade at Springfield Elementary. The twins were killed and found, the places boy was last seen, and found, and the Kwik-E-Mart murders occured within a one kilometre radius of the corner of Evergreen Terrace and Elm."

"And now, Doctor of Medicine, Julius Hibert," concluded Mel with a flourish.

"Thank you," said the doctor in his rich, honeyed tones as he stood and took his place at the head of the table, "Now, I have analyzed the killers' behavior, and it is classic psychopathology. Two of their crimes, the double-murder, and then the murder of the boy, were very sexual in nature. They seemingly take pleasure in their violent and obscene actions. They have distinct "cool down" periods in between their attacks, during which time, their bloodlust rises to a frenzied pitch, and is eventually released in a another attack on the community. Also, the cruel torture of the Simpson's cat is indicative of a serial killer's mentality, as almost all of the known serial killers exhibited sadistic cruelty to animals as children, which eventually developed into the torture and murder of their fellow men. I can theorize about the young boys who did this, that perhaps they came from a broken home, or have been sexually molested, or exposed to pornography, but I could easily be wrong. Besides, Evergreen Terrace, the sites of the murders are all fairly close to both the school, the Kwik-E-Mart, and the homes of the children killed. In fact, considering the poor driving skills exhibited by the robbers, and their estimated ages, it is unlikely that they are of driving age. And, considering the relative location of the crimes, including the cat killing, it is likely that they attend Springfield Elementary, and live somewhere in that neighborhood."

Hibert sat down, his usual buoyancy lost in the horrific events of the past week. There was an awkward pause, in which the chilling silence was broken only by the sounds of pouring beer, the puffing of cigarettes, and an occasional whisper. Finally, Skinner took the stand once more.

"Considering the fact that all six crimes took place within twelve block of the school, and that three of the victims were students, and the cat that was killed belonged to another student, and especially when one considers the fact that it is very likely that the culprits attend my school, I see it as my duty to do my best to improve school security."

He took out a long list and began to read aloud.

"First, off, we have to improve security in the halls. Metal detectors shall be placed at the primary entrance, the entrance doors to the cafeteria, and the door to the metal shop. Students may not be in the halls during class, except when they are accompanied by a parent, teacher, law officer, or are being escorted by two or more hall monitors and have a teacher's note."

"Secondly, the hall monitors, who once were exemplary students, will no longer be so, as such children are usually obese, myopic, and/or asthmatic. From now on, as part of their plea bargains, the hooligans, troublemakers, and bullies shall be the hall monitors. Such children are good at inflicting pain, are usually skilled with guns, and, do to a freakish combination of repeated holding-back, hormonal abnormalities, and the hormones in beef and dairy products, are big and burly enough to compete in the WWE. They shall be armed with the usual pen and pad of detention slips, as well as handcuffs, walkie-talkies, a nightstick, mace, hand tazer, and either a smooth bore black-powder flint-lock pistol, or air pistol with tranquilizer darts. For added protection, this time _from_ the hall monitors, we shall place tracking collars on them, collect all of their weapons at the end of each day for storage in a time-activated safe, and equip the tracking collars with electro-shock pads, so, if they draw their gun without provocation, either Willie or myself could stun them from the safety of the surveillance room. And while arming and controlling them will be expensive, they are much cheaper than private security, more reliable than the police, and not as large a liability as hiring the local militia."

"Thirdly, we shall, in addition to installing metal detectors, we shall repair the surveillance system. At all times, either Willie or Seamus shall be monitoring the classes. And at the end of the day, I shall go through each tape, and I should see any suspicious behavior, I shall immediately make a copy of it and rush the copy to the police"

"Of course, all of this shall cost money…

All the parents moaned.

"-but I have a few ways of making up for that. First of, we shall save utilities by not using electric lights, and by heating the classes by having the hot, sweaty kids from the previous gym class stand in the center of the room. To save costs for chemistry class, any family that has a pet that is dieing or you want to get rid of, can give it to us and we'll put it out and dissect it. Detention students shall now be employed to reconstitute chalk from chalk dust. Hot lunches will cost ten bucks a plate, and you had better give the kids a little extra, as a fifteen percent tip is customary. Also, I have made a deal with the bullies that if each child pays them twenty dollars at the beginning of the month, that they shall not hurt or humiliate them. Failure to fulfill this promise results in the bully losing that twenty dollars plus an extra ten for emotional damage. Smokers shall not be punished, but rather, praised for their interest in reducing class size and encouraged to smoke at all times."

"French and Spanish class will be canceled, and the teachers laid off. In their stead, Willie and Seamus will teach Gaelic and Scots Gaelic. They are not receiving any pay for this, but are doing it out of the kindness of their hearts and their strong nationalist sentiments."

"And finally, all PTA meetings shall have a fifteen dollar cover charge and a two drink minimum-"

"Awww!" said all the parents in the group.

"-and will be held weekly, with mandatory attendance."

Reverend Lovejoy was next to address the group.

"Friends," he said in his nasally voice, "Let us keep the families of those dearly departed ever in our prayers, and pray always for the safety of our children, and the salvation of the souls of those taken from us. We must take special care to protect our children. Tell them to be home every night before dark. Never let them get in a car with strangers. Never let them be alone. If they go to a friend's house, take them there, see that they make it to the door, and make sure that you know the child and his or her parents very well before letting them go to a house. If they go somewhere, find out where they are going, when they will be back, who will be there, and make sure that at least on responsible adult will be there to supervise whatever they plan to do. Know their friends, monitor their e-mail and phone calls, confront them if they exhibit any suspicious behavior, and always be ready to talk to them and help them if they are having problems. Thank you and God bless." he noticed Father O'Flaherty rising, "Yes, Father."

"Thank you Reverend. Now, I know most'a ya hear don't attend St. Andrew's. That's fine by me. But whatever church you do attend, attend it dutifully with your children, talk to them often about what you believe. If you are naw sure of what you believe, ask the pastor, read the Holy Bible, read religious books. Pray, with your family, especially, that God deliver us from these trying times, that we find the culprits, that justice is swift in catching them, and that they may see the light of the Holy Spirit before they die. Pray for the souls of the children killed, and for poor Manjula (here, it was noticed, his voice sunk into his throat and he had to cough and swallow) that their suffering may be over at last, and that they may be blessed with the Beatific Vision of the face of God for ever."

"Beware the snares of the Devil! He is ever prowling! Be wary of television and the internet, for it may be a window for him into your house and into your soul! Guard your homes against the occult, for they may enter in the most innocent of forms. Ouija boards, tarot cards, Dungeons-n'-Dragons, video games, can very easily be opportunities for the Devil to take you or your family under his control. Evil is real, it exists in the universe, inseparable from existence and incapable of being completely eradicated. Satan sows its seeds all around the world: arm yourself with knowledge of his ways, garb yerself in the armor of Grace, and shield yer families behind the wall of innocence. For our children are so short children. They reach adolescence before they are even teens, their innocence is shattered by books and movies and those blasted games. Give them a chance! Protect them!"

"Yes!" cried Homer, "and not just spiritually! Lock your doors, close your windows, pull the shades, get a dog, get a fence, and get a gun! Don't bother with those burglar alarms, they cost a lot and when someone breaks into your house, the last thing you want is your phone line to be tied up while they call you to make sure it is a real break in."

"I can get you all a real good deal on some guns!" said Herman

"Thank you," the priest said quietly, and he sat back down.

There was much murmuring.

"Yar, the mangy rogues! Should I e'er catch one, I'll tie a millstone 'round his scrawny neck and sink 'im straight t'Davy Jone's Locker! Yar"

"Whadya doin' 'ere, Seamus?"

"I work at the school too, Willie!"

"Ya 'tatter eatin' brandy-sipper!"

"Ach, shove it yeh sheep-shaggin' cross-dresser!"

"Alright guys! Closin' time! I have a, uh, time-share agreement wit' da rats, an' they say it's their turn."

"Gentlemen," Skinner said in a loud, clear voice, "We shall meet next week at the same time. If there is another…incident, we shall meet here that night. Or, if there is a new find or a new lead, we'll use the "fiery cross" method suggested by Willie."

They all made there way out into the chilly late-Winter night. The snow lay thick on the ground. It crunched loudly amongst their fierce and urgent chatting. Slowly, they drove off, until it was only Lovejoy, Seamus, and the tired old Father standing in the snow.

"Well Father," said Seamus, "I'll see you on Sunday then. God bless ye Father."

"God bless and keep you, Seamus. Yer a good man."

Reverend Lovejoy hailed down a cab.

"Do you need a ride back to the rectory, Padre?"

"No, no, I'm fine. It's only a few blocks away t'St. Andrews, an I could use the walk. Thank you though, and I'll see at the Helter Shelter next Thursday."

"Yes, until then…"

Father O'Flaherty walked home beneath the dim halos of the street lamps.

_Manjula…_


	2. Conversions

Chapter Two: Conversion

"Were you raised…?"

"Hindu…but I…was never very religious. I never really understood it."

"Is there any history of Catholicism in your family?"

"My brother…he's a convert. His family lived in the south, and there's a very old and very larger Christian presence there."

"Yes, started by one of the Disciples of Christ thousands of years ago."

"Can you…? Now…?"

"It will take some time. Do you know of the Church's teachings?"

"Just, you know, Jesus, and God, and Sunday and Christmas. Basics"

"You will have to learn the necessary teachings, the Doctrine, the Scripture, the Tradition, the Sacraments, the Theology, the basic Prayers, but I'd say, within about three months, I could Baptize you. Your children, however, can be Baptized. Today, if the need be. I just need to witnesses. Anyone."

"Wait, just a second!"

The woman rushed outside, leaving her eight toddlers in the church with the baffled priest. She returned with Hans Moleman on one arm, and a disoriented hobo on the other.

"Here, they are good, right?"

"Ummm, Ah guess so. Alright, let us begin."

All eight children were Baptized. She cried with joy. Hans Moleman, the poor, senile, near-sighted old prune, said:

"Yes, it is wonderful. I sometimes cry at weddings too!"

"Ah, there you go. Most Baptizing' ah ever did in one day. Now, it is your duty as the godfather of these children, Mr…

"Pete," slurred the bum in response.

"Pete, to be an example of Christian fidelity and faith. And, should anything happen to both of their parents, to be willing to raise them in a loving, Christian household. Can you do that?"

"I'll try. You, know, this is a life hic a life changing thing for me, Father. I'm gonna straighten up, get off the hooch, and get a job! I'm gonna go to church, and steal myself a Bible, and and and everything!"

"There's a good lad."

"Father," said Manjula faintly, as she pulled him aside, "Where can I learn?"

"We have RCI classes every Thursday night at five thirty. Sister Francis teaches them. She's very kind."

"Thank you Father, thank you…"

"Manjula, today, by your very faith, you are a Catholic."

The warm yellow light faded. Father O'Flaherty was in front of his residence, hand on the icy doorknob. He shook his head. That was back in the cool, bright month of October. It was now early February. He unlocked the door and entered his meager dwelling. He closed the door behind himself and locked every one of the locks.

"God bless all here," he called out softly.

He set his hat on the table by the door. He went over to the small icon on the wall. He prayed, silently, with tightly clenched teeth and stinging eyes.


	3. And Jessice Makes Three

Chapter Three: …And Jessica Makes Three

Rod and Todd lay on their beds. Their room, once a bright, pastel peach, was now a dark purple, with black trim. Everywhere, the wild eyes of men like beasts and women like stone peered down on them: Marilyn Manson; Ozzy and the Black Sabbath; Janet Jackson, her now-infamous nipple exposed, uncensored; and Jenna Jameson, completely nude, privates exposed with wanton abandon, leered at them from the ceiling. And shrill, evil-sounding music screamed it's bestial yawp through the dark chamber.

Rod lie half-naked on the bed, a knife in hand. He liked cutting. He had found himself unable to feel lately: the drugs, the sex, the porn, the masturbation, the loud, loud music…he was numb. He had done so much that he would have never even thought of doing before; he had become everything he had hated, and more. He had caused so much suffering, seen so much suffering, and enjoyed so much of it, that he could not connect. So he cut. The sharp, bright pain light his mind, made him feel. It was his only remaining tie to reality: his own pain.

Todd was enraptured in his reading. He had found it in the "Occult" section of the library. It was _Rituale Romanum_'s antithesis, the book of satanic rituals. Ooh, if he could only make his father read it! He was filled with the thrill, the thrill of doing something utterly wicked, utterly taboo, and getting away with it.

He slammed the book shut.

"We need a girl!"

"Why?"

"'Cause, then we can do this stuff. We can hold a real Black Mass!"

"Sounds cool!"

"Plus, if she likes us, we can have all sorts of sinful fun!"

"But who gets her?"

"We both do, dear brother!"

Rod, the youngest, the least mature, did not understand. A few dieing embers of innocence and _naïveté _remained.

"Can we…can we really do that?"

"Of course stupid! Let's get to school. There are tons of chicks there!"

Rod pulled his shirt on. _The bleeding should stop soon_, he thought. They dressed their meanest; their baddest. Spiked hair, dyed black. Earrings. Studded belts. Leather jackets. Chains. Doc Martins boots. The Baphomet. _Grade 'A' badass!_ thought Todd.

They had to sneak into school, because Kearney and Dolph had been appointed to guard the door. Plus, with the metal detectors, they could never get their knives and gun through. The first place that they went was the "Bad Girls'" bathroom. They opened the door and were immediately hit with a hot cloud of cigarette smoke. They strutted in.

The bathroom was filled with smoke, the nicotine mingling with the rank odor of an infrequently cleaned washroom. Graffiti covered every wall and most of the cracked mirror's surface. The two tough girls, Pink and Ritz, as they were called, sat on the sinks, puffing away. A few other girls sulked about in the corners. In one of the stalls, the girls passed about a single smoke, it's odor sweeter and more exotic than that of tobacco, back and forth amongst themselves, growing increasingly giddy.

The two boys looked at Pink and Ritz, they looked back. They gave cocky grins and nodded, the girls smiled their lopsided ruffian's smiles, and Ritz winked.

As they had discussed earlier, Todd took the initiative.

"Hey babe!"

"Hey you!" she called back.

"How's it going?"

" 'sgoin' good. Whatcha doin' in here dough? Dis is a goyle's bathroom."

"Well, that's why I came: girls."

"Ooh," purred Ritz, sliding off of the sink, "Dat's _noive_."

"Yeah," said Pink, hopping off her sink and standing behind Ritz, "Youze just _askin'_ fo' trouble!"

"I love trouble," articulated Todd, leaning in on Ritz.

Ritz didn't say another word. She grabbed Todd by the lapels of his jacket, and shoved him against the wall. Rod was in shock. Todd felt quite emasculated, about to be beaten up by a _woman_. But then she started to kiss him. And the feelings of deflation were immediately reversed. He kissed back, sloppy, rough, and bestial.

Pink circled about Rod, toying with him. He was younger and not as handsome as his brother, but Ritz was the _alpha_, and she had made her pick. She took Rod and kissed him. Her kisses were softer and sweeter, and had a taste of nicotine and cherry cola. Rod was too frightened and excited to do anything but stand there shaking with excitement. The girls in the back laughed and gossiped and made cat-calls.

"Youse a cutie, ya know that?" said Pink as she played with Rod's hair.

"Wow! You make me all tingly in my pants! I hope you're not the one we sacrifice!" he blurted out.

"What?!" said Ritz, dropping Todd to the floor.

"He said we're gonna take you home and try you both out! And the worst lay is the one we sacrifice to the Dark Lord!"

Ritz looked like a rabid dog.

"What's a lay?" asked Rod blithely.

She grabbed Todd by his lapels and lifted him above her head. He smiled nervously, before he was tossed headlong into the sink and was knocked unconscious. Rod pulled out a shiv, but Pink kneed him in the groin then punched him with her studded-gloved hand. He went reeling, and when he tried to gain his feet, Ritz beaned him with a length of pipe she found on the floor. Todd came to, and tried to draw his gun. Pink saw him and sprayed his eyes with mace. He flailed about the floor like a shark on the deck of a ship, and the recovering Rod helped him out the door. Before leaving, the blinded Todd screamed at the cackling girls:

"You'll get yours! By Satan, I'll kill you filthy whores!"

Todd washed out his eyes in the boys' room, obscenities and oaths and threats bubbling out of his lips.

"Fuckin' idiot, Rod. Girls are no effin' good, Rod, never forget."

Then, there was a light, melodious laugh from a nearby stall. The door swung open, and there, clad in purple and black, was Jessica Lovejoy.

"Hail Satan!" she hissed with relish, raising a hand in a horned salute. The boys smirked and returned the salute.

"Sssso, boys, I heard you a little problems with the girls. Well, don't dismiss all of us!" she said as she hopped up on one of the sinks and sat with her legs intertwined.

"Really," said Todd, "Are you good?"

"In all senses except morally: yes! And, I know that it is you who's killed all those poor people!"

Rod and Todd reached for their knives.

"Oh boys, there's no need for that with me! Why, I'm impressed!"

Both were thunderstruck.

"Really?"

"Oh yes, your technique is good…for beginners. It's been a week and a half since your first murder and you aren't even in the top ten suspects! Plus, you committed your crime out in the open, and right in front of old 'Piggum's' house, no less!"

The boys' stomachs dropped. They raped and killed to girls…in front of the house of the chief of police…_while he was home!_

"While he was home nonetheless! You've got talent, raw talent, and luck. Oh ho ho, lots of luck! And you have passion and take pleasure in it! But you need me. I am a planner. I killed my first one when I was _seven_. Yes, and I got away with it. Almost…what, five years ago it was? Yes, it's a cold case now. That's the extent of my planning. And I've done two more since then, and burnt down a school, and haven't down a minute of juvie!"

"Wow," said Rod, "You are smart!"

"Yesss, and, I can give you both a good," she paused, pulling her skirt up her thighs, "…time…"

They left the school. They ran the streets. They went to an arcade, stole quarters, played ultra-violent video games, spilled drinks, and made noise. They were thrown out, and flipped off the manager. They went home and committed various acts of varying levels of depravity. Ned interrupted their debauchery, but left after Jessica charged him, naked, waving a Bowie knife. They then went down into the basement, and plotted how they could best have fun…and pain.

Ned was upstairs, weeping. He sat at the piano, his fingers slamming down the keys with all his anger and despair. A half-empty glass of bourbon was within his reach.

As he played, he cried, and sang softly, in a broken voice

"My Go-od…my Go-----d…my have you…abandoned me…?"


	4. Chaos

Chapter Four: Chaos

Chirp! Chirp-chirp, Chir-ir-ir-ir-irrr-irp!

It was early April, and the thrush and meadowlark sang. The raven laughed at the _pechers_, "To-morrow! To-morrow! Ha! Ha! Ho ho!"

The children danced and played in the sunlight. School was out for two glorious weeks. The sun was a Pastoral Symphony on their yellow skin as they laughed and giggled and splashed about like free and happy birds. The fathers worked, looking forward to the Easter Break, when they too would be happy and free from care and duty, while the mothers stood at the thresholds of their homes, watching hesitantly as their children ran and laughed in the broad, safe, sunny lanes. The killings had stopped. It had been over two months since the last killings. The nightmare was over. But something inside Marge Simpson, her instinct as the giver and protector of her children's lives, kept her from being at ease.

"Where had they gone? Who were they? Are they still at school? Where are their parents?" and other such questions raced about in her tired head. She had discussed this with the other women of the town, with Mrs. Hibert, Mrs. Powers, the twins' mother, Agnes Skinner, Edna Krabappel, Lindsay Neagle, Kookie Kwan, and all the rest. Many shared her doubts as to the permanence of this peace, but all were happy to cast off the yoke of doubt and anxiety, at least for the Season.

Bart, too, was not at ease. Things could never go back to normal, for a feature of his normal life was his companion Millhouse. He sat on the overpass with Nelson, Frankie, Martin, Max, and Ralph, spitting down at passing cars.

"My daddy puts your daddy in his car and takes him to jail. He has to stay there until he sobers up, or gives daddy money!"

"Yeah, uh-huh, Ralph."

"_Boy_," thought Bart, "_This ain't the same without Millhouse_."

"I'm gonna go home. Catch ya later!"

"Later."

"See ya!"

"I forgot I'm wearing chonies! I have to go change-change!"

Bart left on his bike. He rode through the streets, up and down the familiar avenues, watching the businesses fade into houses, and finally reaching his house. He took his bike into the backyard, and said 'hullo" to Santa's Little Helper. He threw his doggie toy, and he went to fetch it. Bart then went inside, and ascended the stairs to his room. As he walked past his sister's room, he heard horrible sobs in the lulls in her saxophone practice.

"Lis?"

"What?" she said, wiping her runny nose, and not waiting for an answer before resuming her practice.

"What's wrong? Something happen to Snowball V?"

"No it's…just…"

Bart sat on the bed next to her. She looked at him, and his heart ached at the sight of her red, teary eyes.

"Millhouse…!"

"Lisa…"

"He always was so nice to me…he always liked me! And now he's dead! I just wish that…I don't _know!_ Maybe if I had pretended to like him, maybe if I had been a better friend…"

"Lisa, it's not your fault…"

"I mean I went out with _Nelson! Nelson…_of all people! Why couldn't I just have…loved Millhouse, if I had…"

"Lis, it's not your fault! It's the fault of whoever did it, and I don't care if the police have given up, _we're_ gonna find them! With your brains and my connections to Springfield's underworld, we can do it!"

"Really?"

"Sure, we've solved crimes that have baffled the police before!"

"Okay, gather the troops, I'll get my supplies, and we'll meet at the tree house in eighteen hundred!"

"What?"

"Six o'clock," she explained dejectedly.

"Ohhh, got it."

At six that evening, Bart, Lisa, Larry, Frankie, Wendell, Martin, Allison, Max, Ralph, Jamie, Jimbo, Kearney, Dolph, and Nelson were assembled in the tree house.

"Alrighty then, Operation Clue is underway! Lisa, let us begin."

"Okay, first of, just to clarify, we are here to solve the mystery around the recent spate of killings. We know so far that the culprits were both kids our age, wearing New Balance sneakers, who most likely go to our school, most likely live in this neighborhood, and have ties to the Occult. The police say that they've exhausted every lead, and that they'll never find them. Just because they stopped caring doesn't mean that we have!"

"Our first clue is the gun. While it has no fingerprints and is unregistered, I am certain that a local private distributer gave it to the gunmen. If we can trace it, we can find our man. Bart, you go home with Ralph and get that gun. Tomorrow, go to all of our usual contacts: Fat Tony, Bloodbath and Beyond, Herman, Cletus, and Snake. See if they are the ones who sold it, or if they now who did."

"Yay," cried Ralph, "I'm not a poult!"

There was an awkward pause.

"Okayyy, Nelson, patrol the Kwik-E-Mart and surrounding areas. Look for suspicious kids, aside from us, hanging around. It is likely that the culprits will return, if they haven't already."

"Jimbo, Kearny, Dolph, you are our hall monitors. I need you three to be on the look-out for any suspicious kids. And I need you to make copies of all the teachers' attendance slips, so we can see if there is a pattern to any kid's absences."

"Jamie, your dad's a lawyer. Ralph and you will be our sources of information on any official developments in this case, and to help us run background checks. I also need you an' Allison to monitor the gossip mill, as you are both more popular than I and thus privy to more knowledge."

"Martin, I need you and the…"Superfriends" to monitor the occult sections of the school and city library. Keep track of which books are checked out, when and if they are returned, and who merely sits in the section and reads. Take note of every move they make, use a digital camera if you must, and be careful not to be seen."

"Bart, again, use your connections, and watch the movement of guns and money around the town. Such will be the key in finding our killers."

"I have assigned myself the special task of entering the dark underbelly of the school society. I shall pretend to go Goth, and see if I can learn about any occult goings-on amongst the Anne Rice-reading crowd."

They kids all swore to never rest until they found those responsible for the murders and brought them to justice. They had all left by seven thirty.

At ten o'clock that night, the gypsy woman sat in her tent at the edge of town. She was setting up for the night, when the men would sneak away from their homes and come to "lay their money down". She broke open a fresh pack of Tarot cards and shuffled the crisp deck. She mixed and flipped the cards.

She picked twelve from the deck.

"Spirits, what does this evening hold for me?"

She flipped the first card. _Death_. She frowned. She flipped another over. _The Gemini. The Hanged Man._ _The Assassin. The Pentagram. Eternity. The Void. The Necromancer. The Bad Seed. The Burning Gypsy Tent. The Inept Police Force. _

She frowned as she shuffled the cards back into the deck. It seemed to have something to do with the murders of the twins.

She set another twelve cards on the table. _Death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death._

The horror of what she had just seen overtook her. Distraught, she shuffled the cards back in. Her hands were shaking violently. She dropped a few. One landed face up. _Death._ She picked the cards up and hastily mixed the cards together. She set twelve out, face down. She reached out. He hand hovered, shaking violently, like a frail bird, above the cards. She flipped one over. _DEATH._ She flipped the next one over. _The Gypsie Who CAN NoT Take A FUCKING Hint!_ The tent flapped open. A small, portly girl, with long black hair, and a long black dress, was holding a crossbow.

Otto drove the dark and lonely streets.

"Duh-duh-dunuh-NUH-Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuhnuh…" he hummed, tapping his hands on the bus wheel and bobbing his head to the beat.

A child crouched in the bushes. He lifted, with some difficulty, the shotgun he had stolen from his father's workplace. He snapped into focus as he saw the headlights shine in the darkness. The hefted up the powerful gun, like a canon, it seemed to him. He rested the barrel on a stand he had made from a fork-shaped stick. He set the stock against his small shoulder. His hands were shaking.

The bus kept rolling.

He sucked in a deep breath and took aim.

"Duh-duh-dunuh-NUH-Nuh-nuh-nuhnuh…"

He took aim.

"Ooohhooo! Baby-Baby!"

Bang.

The bus flipped on it's side and slid. Otto slammed into the windshield, and his legs were broken, caught behind the steering wheel. The nerves and sinew in his neck were torn as the bus flipped on it's side, and he was blinded by the shower of sparks and glass. The boy dropped the gun and waddled out of the bushes. He carried with him a canister of gasoline. He splattered it over the bus. He opened the gas tank and splattered some gas in. He took a rag. He soaked it in gas. He stuck it in the gas tank. He toddled back to the bushes. He used the remainder of the gas to draw a pentagram on the ground. He lit his lighter, and set the pentagram on fire. He then took and oily rag, wrapped it around a stone, lit it, and threw it at the bus.

Blam.

He ran off into the night as sirens began to wail in the distance. He left his father's gun in the bushes.

Agnes Skinner stood in the incandescent light of her kitchen. She was gently plying chocolate frosting on a cake for her son, Seymour. It was his forty-first birthday. He was at Moe's with his friends, and they would soon return for cake and presents.

A small child, with an angel's face and ebony locks, slipped in the open window, and turned on the gas stove. Agnes, seventy five years old, near-deaf and unable to smell, neither heard the child nor smelt the gas.

The mayor looked out the motel window. His security officers were escorting the _courtesan_ to her taxi. _Mission Accomplished_, he thought. He tied up his bathrobe and went to the shower. He ran the water, and waited for the water to run warm. _Stupid motels, cheap curtains instead of classy glass doors, water's always too hot or cold._ He slid out of his robe and stepped in the shower.

The vent in the other room opened. A small child, dressed like an urchin, peeked out. Because of his slight, starved figure, he could easily fit in the vent. He crawled out, and tried to suppress a cough. He pulled out a kitchen knife from his dusty woolen jacket. He tip-toed into the bathroom. Quimby turned. The curtain flipped open.

_"AAAAHHHH!"_

In and out the knife went. Slip. Stab. Slash. Slip-slip. Quimby grabbed the curtain as he fell. Blood swirled into the drain. A few minutes later, the vent closed.

Constable Wiggum drove along the lonely road. _What a night! Wish I'd joined the army 'stead of this._ The gypsy woman, Otto, Agnes. He then got an APB that the mayor, Quimby, had been found, slashed and stabbed, with a note stabbed into his back.

"Okay boys, everyone to the Earwig Motel. This is a 13-66."

As he drove along the dimly lit street, he saw a small, filthy bundle in the road. He slowed the patrol car. He then noticed that it was a child. He stopped and rushed out.

"Hey kid!" He waddled over. The child didn't move. He stood over the child. He heard a slight whimper. He leaned in closer. The bundle exploded, slashing out at Wiggum with a straight razor, cutting his carotid artery. Blood, saturated with sugar and saturated fat from thousands of midnight donuts, splattered the pavement. The child did a strange and atavistic dance, the bright blood sparkling as the lights from the patrol car flashed red and blue.

Judge Snyder needed coffee. Five of people were killed, in the last five and a half hours, about every sixty five minutes. He began brewing a pot of coffee. The phone rang. Grumbling to himself about how he should have moved to Florida when he had the chance, he walked over to the phone. He picked it up.

"Justice Snyder."

Nothing.

"Hello? Hell-o!?"

"Hello, Fat Albert. Beautiful night, isn't it?"

The voice chilled his veins. It was a voice he had never heard before. It was so strange, like it came from neither man nor woman, child or adult. He couldn't even tell how many people were speaking.

"You'll be with them shortly…"

Dial tone.

He set the phone down, horrified. He went over to the coffee pot. He poured himself a large glass of hot coffee and drank it black, in big, desperate, gulps. Gulp. Gulp, Gulp-gulp. Gulp…_Tastes…funny_. He felt a great and sudden pain in his gut. His head was swimming. The room was melting around him.

There was a vicious little cackle. The window closed.


	5. The Nightmare Unfolding

Chapter Five: The Nightmare Unfolding

Falling…tumbling and broken. Shattered and Lost. "I ain't gonna see me only son go of'n become a priest!" The Christmas orb fell. Fell. Racing towards oblivion. "Father…I think I killed a man!" Gone, lost. "Father, he is cheating on me! And this isn't even the first time! I don't know what to do! My poor babies!" A dog snarled in the man's face. "Can I have shummmmoney fer the bus, Ffffader?" God, help me! Help this sorry world "You can't help me! I can't be helped! I'm dead already!" Burning pentagram. The door to the kiln opened…"I killed my bay-beeee!"…and inside were human ashes and charred skeletons. _Double Murder_. Swirling into oblivion…_I remember I cried when my father died, never wishing to hide the tears…_666…Factories of Death…The Hanged Man…All is lost…dust…A pile of scared and naked men…click-click went the camera…dust. "Though art dust, and to the dust thou shalt return. Death…Death…white face, fanged grimace…Death…the black prince on his black throne…the warm red tabernacle was torn open, and a bright, cold light poured in…Death…a strange, headless snaked peered in…the vacuum started…Help…! A scream that was never heard…a tiny corpse, piled amongst thousand of the same…_Death!DeathDEATH!_"

"Gah!"

Father O'Flaherty was alone in his room. It was four in the morning. And he new that the nightmare he had just awoken from real.

He said his morning rosary, kneeling before a faded portrait of the Virgin and her Immaculate Heart, pierced by swords of sorrow. He showered and dressed in his usual harried fashion. He put a bowl of instant oatmeal in the microwave, and a brass kettle on the burner, and walked out in the brisk spring air to fetch the paper.

_There musta been another riot last night,_ the priest thought when he saw the paper-strewn streets, heard the wailing of sirens, and smelt the sting of smoke in the air. He bent over and opened the paper.

_**"NIGHT OF CARNAGE! **Mayor, Police Chief, and Judge amongst those killed in what appears to be a follow-up on the wave of violence earlier this year."_

Father O'Flaherty shook his head. In his heart, he prayed for those who had lost a loved one, and that the souls of the departed may be safe and at peace in the arms of the Lord. But more was to come.

"Father! Father!"

I was Seamus. He was running down the street, his woolen cap in one hand, sheleighleigh in the other. Behind him was Pete, the bum.

"Father! Someun's broken inta' St. Andrew's! They've desecrated the altar!"

"Faith'n Begara! I'll be there in a second! Let me just turn off the stove!"

When he arrived with Pete and Seamus at the church, he could scarcely believe his eyes. The ancient oak doors were broken, as though someone had chopped their way in with an axe. Old Mrs. VanHouten and several of her elderly friends were standing in front of the church steps, whispering nervously.

"Wait outside ladies."

The priest walked inside the church. It was as though a beautiful woman had been raped and left for dead. The holy water was had been dyed red, whether it was with food coloring or actual blood, he did not wish to know. The heads of the saints had been removed. Yet most grievous sin was what had been done to the altar of God.

The crucifix had fallen, it's wires cut. The tabernacle doors were rent asunder, and the Consecrated Host stolen. Where the Crucifix once hung was painted a star. A with five arms, made from a single, continuous line. The third arm was pointing downwards; inside the five arms was drawn the head of a goat, whose horns, ears, and nose filled each arm of the star. Between each arm, a strange character was carved.

The father fell to his knees. He crossed himself. He was crying


	6. On the Trail

Chapter Six: On the Trail

The morning found Springfield in a state of utter panic. Sometime before the death Judge Snyder, having learned of the death of the mayor, then of the Police Chief, the already unnerved town had broken out in a full-fledged riot. Looting, arson, gun fights, knife fights, and underage drinking.

By dawn, the residents of "America's Greatest Shame", partly subdued from exhaustion, partly by the news of the death of the beloved Judge Snyder, and partly by the rubber bullets and tear gas of the S.W.A.T. team, had settled into a state of suspicion and anxiety. The pentagram at the bus bombing, and the soggy note found pinned on the mayor's corpulent corpse, tied the murders to those of the previous winter. And the note swore that there would be more.

The Simpson house was exemplary of the panic. The children were told to stay in their rooms, while Homer and Marge boarded up the windows. They locked the doors and shoved furniture against them. They broke out the guns and patrolled the house, while listening to the radio for any news of…anything.

Meanwhile, as the revised town charter stated, the smartest adults of the town would serve as the judges and lawmakers. Mister Burns, the wealthiest man in the town, served as the president pro temp, and each neighborhood swiftly elected a representative to the hastily re-organized town council. Skinner, Willie, Homer, and the men of Springfield continued their vigilante search. Armed, they patrolled the neighborhoods at night, placing anyone even vaguely suspicious under arrest, tying them up, and locking them in the nearest tool shed. It was frontier justice at it's worst. But they were the only source of order, as, with the brutal slaying of chief Wiggum, Springfield's police force had disbanded, and its members either joined the militia, skipped town, or simply quit, went home, and waited for the nightmare to end.

Once their mothers agreed that it was safe to do so, under the condition that they would drive them there, wait there the whole time, and then take them home, the children were able to meet in the tree house.

"Okay," said Bart, "We were hit pretty hard this time. We were flat on our feet. We lost many important people. Judge Snyder, whom many hear, myself included, appreciated for being soft on juvenile crime. Ralph, you lost a father."

"Then who's been sleeping with mommy every night?"

"Skinner lost his mother, which will only result in him being harder on us. And Otto, the beloved bus driver, was cruelly assassinated. Let us take a moment to remember our beloved friend and drug source."

The children bowed their heads, in simple, childish prayer. Except Ralph, who continued to stare into space.

"Alright," said Lisa, standing up and walking over to the dry-erase board on the wall, "The murders truly are tied to the original murders, by virtue of the fact that the few witnesses were able to identify the culprits as children around our approximate age. Also, the fiery pentagram, the note, the desecration of St. Andrew's, and the fact that each murder took place sixty-six minutes and six seconds apart, indicates that they too were cult killings. But new elements are present. First of all, the great distance between each killing makes it unlikely that they are the work of one or even two people. The Gypsies swore that the child they saw was a girl. The shoe size found near the bus killing shows that the gunner was a child, but the shoe size is different from either of the previously recorded ones. And the finger prints are not from either of the previous culprits. And the finger prints found on the shower curtain where the mayor was killed are not from either of the two original murderers."

"Some theorize that these are the works of copy-cats, or are simply unrelated. But I believe that the original killers are involved, but have joined forces with other youthful villains. I have some evidence to present. Nelson?"

"Lisa." he said, standing and smiling at his old flame. He walked to the front of the assembly, and produced a sandwich bag containing a bloody steak knife.

"I found this in the dump while lookin' for my breakfast."

"Now, thanks to the lack of morals found in many throughout this town, I was able to bribe the mortician into letting me examine Wiggum's corpse, no questions asked. Nelson delivered this blade to me last night, saying that it might have something to do with the murders. I compared it to the wound in his throat, and it fit. Also, I tested the DNA on the knife using my "Little Meddler's DNA Testing Kit" and it matched Wiggum's. Also, I took special care not to touch the handle before dusting it for prints. I took the finger prints from it and compared them to all those that have been recorded so far. They match those of one of last winter's rapists."

There was much frightened and excited chatter amongst the group, while Nelson and Lisa stood silently at the front.

"Therefore, the killers from this winter _are_ involved. The note said so, and this only validates it. I plan on leaving this blade, along with the DNA test readouts, and some copies of the culprit's prints, on the front steps of the Police Station today.

"I can do it" Ralph said, an unusual seriousness in his now-quaking voice, "We're going there later today to pick up Daddy's stuff."

"Thank you Ralph. I know that this must be a very hard time for you."

"Turkey Jerky…hah-hah, it rhymes!" he giggled as he grabbed the bag filled with vital evidence.

"Lisa," said Martin, politely raising his hand, "This is all well and good, we have found ourselves in our original predicament: who are the killers?"

"Quiet, Poindexter, before I make you a soprano again!"

"Nelson…I was just about to get there, Martin. You see, two pairs of previously-recorded finger prints were found: those on the shower curtain belong to patches, the street kid, whose whereabouts remain unknown, and those on the gas valves of Skinner's stove: Jessica Lovejoy!"

"Gasp!"

"Yes! She was part of the plot, and was caught! But she said nothing, and her rich father bailed her out and has hired the best lawyers in town to defend her. And, of course, he's acting as though she's done nothing wrong and all that jazz. She is the key!"

"Hey Lis!" interrupted Bart, "I thought that you were gonna go Goth and infiltrate their secret underworld and everything. What's the story?"

"I'll have you know, I have." She stepped behind the board. Her jeans fell.

"Woohoo!" called Jimbo.

"Oh, grow up!" snapped Bart in defense of his young sister's purity.

Lisa emerged from behind the board. Her face was painted white, with black eyeliner, eye shadow, and lipstick. A spiky black wig covered her long blonde hair. She wore a black dress with jingling chains hanging from it, and black boots. In her nose was a fake nose ring, and on her fingers were silver rings of snakes, skulls, and bats.

"Say hello to "Erzebet BloodTree"!

"Very convincing," said Jimbo.

"You look good," said Nelson.

"Thank you," she said with a smile.

"If it weren't for the fact that I'm old enough to be your father, I'd say you look hot dressed like that!" said Kearney.

"Umm…thanks."

"So, what have you learned?"

"This: Jessica Lovejoy is a Goth, and is a member of a very exclusive club. They meet in the old spirograph warehouse in Old Warehouse Row. They have ties to Snake, to whom we have traced the murder weapon in the Nahasapimapetilon killings. They also have ties to local drug dealers, as I have been able to discern that they are heavy users. And finally, that they are seriously dark. I mean it. Pentagrams and swastika and everything. They're essentially a mini-coven. They're so bad that even some Goths say that they are a little too into it."

"Can you get in?"

"I can't! Jessica would notice me. She knows me too well. I don't think that I could lie convincingly to them."

"Have you tried?"

"…No…"

"Then do it Lis! This is our only good lead. Meanwhile, me an' the guys will try to get an "internship" with Snake, and see if he'll let us go on the next weapons delivery there."

"Well, it _is _our only good lead…"

The meeting adjourned. The parents took their children home. Ralph's mother drove past the Police Station on the way home, and came out five minutes later with teary eyes and a cardboard box of her husband's belongings.

The drive home was long and painful for her. Every second, she thought of her poor husband. The funeral would be that Saturday, they had said.

Once home, Ralph ran straight to his room, and bolted the door. He took the bag with the knife, and hid it under his mattress. He then went to his desk, pulled out a change of clothes and a bag of makeup, and went to the bathroom.


	7. The Gathering Storm

Chapter Seven: The Gathering Storm

Light shone in through the window, bright, brilliant, holy. The bed was neatly made, sheets tightly, neatly folded. The sink was pristine and white, a neatly folded towel deftly balanced on it's edge. A small, helpless bird, one of it's wings broken, tweeted and rustled in a straw-filled box on the window ledge.

Father O'Flaherty stood in silent prayer. The wind picked up, and a Shadow passed over the brilliant sun.

Clunk.

The crucifix had fallen from the wall. He walked over, pained with every step, for his knees were aching. He reached out, and raised it reverently to his lips. He kissed the feet of the Savior, and placed the icon back on it's hook.

The bird had died. It's life snuffed out.

Like a tiny candle in a dark cave. The darkness was gathering.

_Life is a war, a spiritual war. And I am now called to fight the enemy face-to-face_

_He never forgives an injury. He has me on his list, and the entire town, too. _

He grabbed his hat and coat. He knew what he had to do.


	8. Conspiring

Chapter Eight: Conspiring

The room reeked of death. Incense burned in silver trays, offered up before the statues of grimacing clay idols. A hookah, purchased from Plundered Pete's with Jessica Lovejoy's weekly allowance, stood in the center of the room. Around it sat various young teens, puffing away the world on large, dark pillows. Adolescants sat on moldy couches, smoking tobacco and clove cigarettes, discussing dark and dreary literature and movies. A few boys sat before a dusty TV, watching a grainy copy of a "snuff" film, the Christian disgust slowly being overwhelmed by bestial lust and animal energies.

Only the light of flickering candles was there, for the windows were painted black. The air was thick, sickly sweet. The room reeked of death.

In a back room, Todd knelt before an enormous statue. It was twice the height of a man. It had the hooves, horns, and beard of a goat; the face of a man; the head of a wolf; the eyes of a cat; the claws of a leopard; the wings of a bat; and the tail of a dragon. On it's bulging gut was carved a leering face. On it's head was a diadem, with three long prongs. Two had large faux-gems in them, one was bent and was missing it's stone. Jessica Lovejoy, entered. Behind here were two young boys, armed with hunting rifles, and Ralph Wiggum.

Todd turned.

"Hail Satan, hail Todd Ukubak!" cried Jessica, raising her hand in the satanic salute.

"Hail Satan, and Hail Jessica Nightshade!" he replied, returning the salute.

"I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the..." started the blissfully ignorant Ralph, before being silenced with the butt of a rifle.

"What is it, O glorious Queen of the Night?" asked Todd, leaning in and stroking her face.

"Our patsy has some troubling news, my prince." she replied gravely.

"Really? You!" he said, pointing at Ralph, who was now on the ground, holding his stomach, "Speak!"

"Woof, woof-woof, me-ow! Oof!"

"What of it, Swine!?"

"People call my daddy a pig sometimes, too!"

"Grr..."

"Ralph…"said Jessica, leaning and smiling a cruel and false smile, "I'll give you a lollipop if you tell Todd what you told Patches!"

"Bart and Lisa are trying to stop you guys! And so are all the kids! They're mad you killed my dad and Mr. Bus Driver and the Pinstiple's gramdma!"

"What else?"

"Well…Oh! I remember! They proved that the two sets of killings are connected, but Lisa gave me the evidence because she doesn't know you guys are my buddies too, and I still have it. And…Lisa is working on a list, and she has you too guys on it, and she has Jessica on it, and Patches and Poor Violet!"

"Is that all!?" cried Todd, leaning in and grabbing Ralph by the collar of his leather jacket. Ralph was frightened.

"I made an uh-oh!"

"Yes," said Jessica, "Except that Lisa Simpson is trying to infiltrate our accursed coven, and wishes to destroy us from within! She has donned our garb and is going by the name of Erzebet Bloodtree"

"Very well…" said Todd, releasing his hold of Ralph, "We must make sure that she enters with no trouble. I have no intentions of stopping an enemy who would willingly enter our domain alone. We will catch her, violate her virgin body, and send her soul, dedicated to the falsehood Buddha, screeching to the pits of Hell!"

"Hail!"

"Hail!"

"Snow!"

"Now, go, son of Wiggum! I shall send for you when I see fit!"

Ralph waddled out, and the guards followed him. Todd looked to Jessica.

"Now, let us have a little fun." He walked across the room to a desk chair. He spun it around, and in it was Rod, tied and gagged.

"Now, Mistress Nightshade, how shall we go about this?"

Jessica laughed viciously. The sound of a drill was heard. Muffled screams. The drill…silence…then laughter.


	9. The Plan

Chapter Nine: The Plan

Bart, Nelson, Jimbo, Kearney, and Dolph pedaled down the shady country road. It was lined with weeds, discarded cans, and tall, brown grass. The houses were sparse, mostly wooden, some built by hand, and all neglected and in a state of utter disrepair. On the front porch of one such house sat Cletus, the slack-jawed yokel, witling and "chawing tobaccy". Bart and Nelson waved, and the hick acknowledged with a nod and "how-do". They continued their long trek until they reached the house they were looking for.

Partly concealed by bushes and sparse trees stood the house of Snake; drug dealer, rum-runner, burglar, weapons dealer, carjacker, bank robber, and general crook. They road down the gravel path, then stashed their bikes in the bushes.

"This better work, Simpson! I didn't bust my ass biking all the way to this dump just to get shot by some crook!" threatened Kearney.

The walked up the creaking porch of the decaying shack. Bart knocked on the door. A rustling was heard, then a loud "click-schk" that made their stomachs drop. The door flung open. Snake stood at the threshold, a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun in hand.

"Oh, it's you, little dudes. C'mon in." he said, lowering his weapon.

"Hey Snake."

"Yo, Bart-dude. Nelson. Jimbo. Kearney. Dolph." he said, waving them in with his gun. As the last went in, he looked around quickly, then shut the door and locked it.

The window shades were all draw, and a blazing fire was the only source of light in the dusty cabin. Crates of drugs, guns, ammo, bootleg videos, and hijacked merchandise lay about the single room. In a small grotto by the fireplace were a rusty, plinking sink, a sparking, ersatz toaster, and an old microwave oven. There was a smelly, calf-hide couch, with rat holes and cigarette burns in it, and across the room from it was a cracked TV screen, with a clothes hanger for rabbit ears.

"So, little dudes," drawled Snake as he eased into the couch and pulling a Cuban cigar from the opened crate to his right, "What brings you to my humble abode?"

He lit the cigar and puffed it with relish, then washed it down with a swig from a bottle of Jack Daniel's, a box of which was at his feet, acting as a foot rest.

"Well, Mr. Snake…" Nelson began.

"Please, please, call me 'Snake'"

"Snake…do you know this gun?"

Bart pulled the silenced handgun from the shooting from of his faded blue backpack, and handed it to Nelson, who handed it in turn to Snake.

"Oh yeeeeeah, I remember her. Beauty, ain't she? I gave to those two little Christian dudes, you know, with the voices like someone cut their sacs off…what were their names again? Nod and God…"

"Rod and Todd?" asked Bart, one eyebrow raised, and a finger raised to his left ear.

"Yeah, that was it. Todd's the tall one? Right?"

"That's them." said Kearney.

"Well," continued Bart cautiously, eyeing the shotgun, now leaning against the couch, "I'm not sure if you know this, but that gun was used in a double murder. A woman and a child."

"Ohhhh, NO! I thought that they were just gonna use it for a shoplifting or to impress some chicks or somethin'. Man, do I feel guilty!"

"Snake," said Bart, who had crossed the room during Snake's reply, and now stood beside him, hand on hi shoulder, "The security camera caught them. We are 100 certain that it was them. And now, they've gone beyond raping and murdering and robbing: they're trying to destroy the town! They killed the mayor, and the police chief, and Judge Snyder-"

"Aw man! And now the only judge in town in that bitch What's-Her-Name! Snyder was so cool…"

"Snake, you've given more weapons to them since then, right?"

"Well, yeah. An M-16, an AK-47, a bunch of handguns, a crossbow, and a shitload of silencers."

"Snake, I have a deal for you: we come with you on your next delivery. We need arms, and some body armor should things go bad. My sister and the Frink kid can rig us some wires. We'll have one tape recorder on one of us, and one in a nearby parked car. We need to wait until we have enough on tape to get them, then we draw our weapons. We place them all under citizen's arrest, and take them to the jail. Now that Uber-Bitch is the law in town, they'll hang for sure!"

"Will the tape be enough?"

"It probably will, plus all the weapons and drugs they'll have." Said Jimbo.

"Even still, Snake, you may have to come forward and testify. Can you do that?"

"Hmmm…I sure as hell don't want to go to jail again…but then again, these sick little dudes needed be stopped, man. I'm sure a plea bargain can be worked out…can you get your parents to chip in for my bail?"

"Maybe…plus, I'm sure Millhouse's parents and the Sherri and Terri's will gladly pay for the release of the man whose testimony puts the murderers of their children behind bars, especially if he demonstrates the courage to risk his own freedom for the cause of justice."

"Yeah, and when I'm out on bail, I can make a break for it!"

"Umm…that's fine with us." said Bart.

"As soon as those freaks get the needle, I'll be able to sleep easy." said Kearney.

"Yeah! As long as those fuckers get what's comin' to them, I don't care if you run free!" added Dolph.

"Boo-ya! I'll skip town, hide out in the desert for a few months, then come back, live in my old apartment for a while, and use my old alias, "Jailbird", for a few more months just to be on the safe side, and then move back here. So you little dudes think you can store all this shit at your places for a while? I'll give you each fifty bucks!"

"Well," hesitated Bart, whose usually-silent conscience objecting. Nelson punched him in the arm.

"We'd love to..." coughed Bart.

"Awesome! You guys give me the addresses of where you're gonna stash it, and I'll call Fat Tony, and I'll pay you after I get my payment. Make sure you take good care of it though, and only sample one box one of one product, okay? It's common courtesy."

"Okay then, you guys meet me here this Friday at nine forty-five, sharp. I'll brief you, and arm you. Remember, keep it cool, on the low-down. I'll truck the stuff over there, and you help me unload it. They usually pay me inside after checking the stuff, and sometimes one of their leader dudes invites me in for a drink. That is where he will spill the beans, if he does."

"Thanks Snake. I know that this hasn't been easy for you."

"Yeah, yeah…well, thanks for visiting anyways, amigos. Oh, here, a little something for the ride home!" he said as he handed each of them a pack of Cuban cigars.

"Remember," he added, with a wink, "Smoking kills."

In the tree house, Lisa Simpson, Max Frink, Martin Prince, and Database watched the negotiations with Snake. They had planted a miniature listening device in Bart's left ear, and used the old police billboard's giant coffee mug to amplify the signal. Pinhole cameras were implanted in Jimbo's skullcap and Nelson's vest.

"This tape alone could convict them!" exclaimed Martin with excitement.

"Yes, but to convict them, we have to catch them. Even when we had the police force under old Wiggum that would have been tough. But now that our police force is little more than a disorganized lot of half-drunk, gun-toting civilians, our best bet is to capture them during the weapon delivery. Plus, we'll get a tape of their confession, and that will certainly get them the convicted."

"Ehh, one man and five teens against an untold legion of blood-thirsty Satanists? Excuuuse me, miss coordinator poyson, but that smacks of _craziness! Glaiven!_" cried the excitable Max Frink.

"Ehh, we are doomed," whined Database.

"Don't worry, I'll call the militia the minute shots start firing. And they will be wearing bulletproof armor, right?"

"Technically, bullet resistant, dear Lisa. A shot from a powerful weapon, say, a high caliber rifle or a shotgun, at close range, can penetrate the armor if it strikes at a perfect ninety-degree angle. Even shots from normal range break through the outermost layers of material, and, at the very least, cause a nasty bruise. In even more sever cases broken ribs, damage to the internal organs, and internal hemorrhaging have occurred, and furthermore…"

"-the vest only covers the torso and not the arms, head, legs, or groin. I _know_, Martin, but this is our only hope for the successful capture of the main culprits. I know for certain that all the main conspirators will be there this Friday. It is the Dark of the Moon, and a Friday the Thirteenth. They wouldn't miss it: it is the perfect night for performing the _Profane Masse._"


	10. The Attack

Chapter Ten: The Attack

Lisa slinked amongst the wicked children. She leered at those who looked at her, and they either leered or sneered or smirked their shared contempt. She walked over to the smoke filled bathroom. She opened the door. She continued her slink as she entered and looked about. All the stalls were empty. She rushed into the nearest stall, her sour, puffed-up strut now the gait of an excited and terribly nervous thirteen-year-old. She pulled a walkie-talkie from her brassiere, and turned it on. The white noise it made caused her to nearly faint with fright. She lowered the volume, and set it to channel "2".

"The Blood Tree blossoms. Over" she whispered into it.

"Cowabunga, sis," replied her brother's voice, "Movin' in. Over."

"Confirmed, resuming mingling. Over and out."

She turned the device off and hid it in the toilet tank. She adjusted her dress and her wig, then strutted back into the haze.

Meanwhile, the boys were in Snake's U-Tow, backing into the loading dock of the old warehouse. They were in Goth ensemble: Jimbo, still wearing his favorite T-shirt, now sported spiky black hair, several ear and nose rings, and black faux leather pants; Kearney wore a shredded mesh tank top over his white shirt, and had donned a tartan with a dark pattern, he also wore a brass nose ring, and had spiked leather gloves. Dolph had dyed his hair black, and had shaved off the part that was not hanging over his left eye; his lips were painted black. Bart had gone all-out: his hair was in it's usual spiky style, but was now black; he wore a tight, black leather corset, tight black spandex pants, a studded belt with an enormous silver skull buckle, Doc Martin's boots, and studded leather gloves. From his old piercing he dangled an upside-down cross earring, and he had a small stud in his freshly-pierced tongue. His face was painted a very pale yellow, and he had dark shadows painted under his highlighted eyes. Under one eye he had painted a black teardrop; his lips were covered with black lipstick, and lined with dark red pencil. Each ruffian wore a long, black coat in which they concealed two silenced, semi-automatic pistols, and several extra clips.

They helped Snake and a few of the Goth underlings unload the weapons, and then Jessica Lovejoy stomped in. She went over the delivery, checking the off each box of guns and bullets and crossbow bolts on a notepad. She tossed the notepad over her shoulder, and several underlings rushed to catch it.

"Good work boys."

She turned towards the Snake and the boys. Bart was startled by her: it had been several years since he had really talked with her, and he was amazed and horrified by her mature figure and her powerful stance. Her dark eyes flashed like black flames, and her blackened lips curled into a powerful, animalistic sneer. Bart was drawn towards her in lust and repelled in modesty; he was disgusted and fascinated, aroused and disgusted, by the Sophomore Succubus.

"Lord Todd would like to discuss the next week's orders with you in his chambers," she purred, "Follow me."

The all started after, except Bart. _How can she walk like that? She's like Jell-o on springs on a trampoline in an earthquake!_

Nelson nudged him, and Bart snapped out of his daze and walked. _Are her hips supposed to move like that? God! Look at that butt!_

He was so deeply buried in his sophomoric rapture that the next thing he knew, he was in Todd's inner sanctum. Todd sat at a desk that seemed to have had black paint poured over it, and left to dry. Jessica stood beside him, hand on his shoulder, and behind them stood two twelve-year-old boys with 22-caliber rifles.

"How good to see you, Snake. Yes, this week's delivery is perfect, here is your pay." he said in a low, growling voice, and handed Snake a wad of blood-soaked money.

"I hope you don't mind the bank-teller blood."

"Never do, Satan-dude."

"We'll need all the usual next week: five hundred grams of hash, fifty cartons of cigs, a hundred grams of opium, fifty grams of peyote, five hundred 22-bullets, one hundred .357 magnums, fifteen crossbow bolts, and about ten liters of gasoline."

"You betcha."

"And see if you can bring us a black goat, male, and we can sacrifice 'im!"

The voice came from Todd. But it was neither Todd's normal, high-pitched whine, nor the low, gravely voice he had just used. It was a shrill, womanly voice that made the hair stand on Bart's neck.

Todd turned his head with a slow and painful-looking motion. He was now staring into Bart's frightened eyes. A low, womanly voice now issued from his dark lips.

"Hello, Bart."

"Now!"

The men reached for their weapons. Snake, being the most experienced at such situations, had his gun out first. A tiny 22-caliber bullet was fired and glanced the side of his head, fracturing his skull. He fell with a whimper.

Jimbo had his gun out next, then Nelson, then Dolph, then Kearney, then Bart, but they never fired. Jessica had drawn a pistol that she had hidden in the back of Todd's chair, Todd had drawn a hidden weapon as well: an enormous revolver like "Dirty Harry's", and two armed guards had popped out from behind the desk. Five against six.

"Shit," they all said, and they threw their guns on the desk. Jessica smirked, and Todd laughed a deep, frog-like laugh. He opened one of his desk drawers, and said into the walkie-talkie that he took from it:

"Bring in the girl."

The door opened. Lisa, her black wig torn off, her makeup smeared, was lead into the room at gunpoint by two pale-skinned children in patched and frayed clothing.

"Lisa!"

"Yes," said Todd in a smooth, velvety voice, "We knew of your feeble plan. Pitiful creature. Her virgin form shall be our profane tabernacle tonight. She shall be tortured and raped, and forced to watch you five die. Then I shall give her to my darling pet, Jessica, to be her plaything with her 'till she ceases to amuse her. Then we shall kill her, and bathe in her blood by the pale moonlight!"

"No!"

"You…"

Both Bart and Nelson were silenced, knocked unconscious by the butt of a rifle, as their friends were in turn. Lisa screamed, Patches gagged her. She fainted.

Lisa awoke, cold and naked, on a table covered with white linen. Ropes were entwined about her body. Her legs were spread; her privates exposed to the world. She tried to scream, but it choked in her throat. All was dark. She could perceive several candles, just beyond her field of vision, illuminating nothing, doing little more than confusing her senses. She turned her head, and the sight she saw was enough to make her scream.

Bart, Nelson, Jimbo, Kearney, and Dolph, naked, tied to crosses. All were beaten and bloodied. One would move every now and again, and she saw each of their stomachs move with a strained breathe, but she feared they would soon die.

"Everybody's gonna' die, Lis'"

"I mean right now!"

"So do I!"

She recalled that exchange with her brother, many years before, at Kamp Krusty. It gave her some hope. But it soon faded. Dark, disorienting music started. Screeching, untrained voices sang blasphemy. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a procession of black-robed children. They passed by her, between the table and the crucified children, and knelt on the ground. Todd and Jessica were at the end of the procession. After kneeling, they went up to the unholy altar. They stood facing away from the congregation. They were looking at something.

Lisa did not want to look. She was filled with paralyzing fear. Slowly, a force within her began to turn her head.

The statue of Lucifer. Her heart filled with a bright and bloodlike fear.

She screamed. Buddhist nonchalance had given way to pagan fear. Doubt was drowned in desperation. Faith had conquered reason.

"Help me _JESUS!"_

They laughed. Her prayers would go unanswered. They were in vain, those sweet and salty tears; her effeminate and ineffectual god would not save _her_.

Through the laughter, through the heartache and the tears, Lisa heard a faint roar. Soon it was louder than the cruel laughter; the laughter ceased as their pride was punctured.

A light was seen in the high warehouse window. A motorcycle came crashing through. The rider flipped off in mid-air, and landed right between the crucified teens and the terrified virgin. The helmet was cast aside, and a familiar blue coif popped up. She unslung her submachine gun.

"_Get away from her you **BITCH!"**_

The congregation scattered, running for their weapons. Todd and Jessica flipped the table over, using it as a shield. A second roar was heard. The wall crumbled before the mighty Hummer. Rainier Wolfcasle, Uzi in one hand, semi-automatic shotgun in the other, burst through the windshield, firing madly.

"Nahp tyme, kiddies!"

Teen and preteen fell to his shots. Apu, Captain McCallister, Krusty, Mel, and Mr. Teenie, exited the vehicle as well, albeit in a less dramatic manner. They began firing too, though now in defense, as several kids now had their guns.

"Remember," said Apu, "They may be Satanic murderers who killed my wife and first-born son, and they may have been near the point of torturing and killing and innocent girl, but they are still children. Go for the knees and spinal columns!"

Apu used his old Indian Army carbine. He had it set on semi-automatic, and, with the skilled marksmanship of a convenience store clerk, he took out the children.

Blam!

"He'll never walk again!"

_Nor will Gheet…_

Blam!

"Hoo! You won't be swimming this summer!"

_I would have taught him how to swim this summer…_

Apu charged into the crowd. He tossed his rifle into his left hand, and drew his mighty Khukri knife. He hewed their twin limbs like twigs. Wrists and forearms and shoulder blades were slashed and shattered by the curved steel. Out of his periphery he saw a motion. He turned and saw a child struggling to raise a high-power rifle. He lunged forward. He cast aside his carbine and seized the gun by the barrel. The frightened child fired; the shot flew and took off the leg of one of his comrades. Apu raised the Khukri across his chest, and brought hit down into the child's neck, his previous admonition forgotten. The tore through his veins, burst open his trachea. He fell, blood gurgling in his throat.

Apu was stunned. His knees buckled. A great rumble was heard as a third group burst onto the scene: Skinner, Seamus, Kirk, and Moe. Apu recovered just in time: a bullet grazed his arm. He switched hands and drew his sidearm. Todd, Jessica, and Patches were in the corner, by the stairwell, and Patches was firing at him. With three well-placed shots, he brought the street urchin to his knees and sent the two human monsters scurrying into the bloody fray.

"**_Apu_**!"

"**_Mrs. Simpson!_**"

"**_Cut those boys down!_**"

Marge had untied Lisa, and draped the altar cloth over her thin, shivering shoulders. Apu turned and saw the boys, hanging from their cords. He took his knife and cut them down, while Lisa and Marge helped them to their feet and rushed them to the door while Skinner, Moe, and Seamus covered for them. Outside, Willie waited on his tractor.

"Hop on, wee'uns!"

They climbed on and held on as tightly as they could while Willie sped them away from the horrible place.

After what seemed to the children like a second and an eternity to the battle-hungry Willie, they stopped.

"'Ere's me car," said he, as he handed Bart the keys, "Get in, lock the doors, an' if anyone suspicious comes around, drive away. There's a gun in tha' glovebox. And give the wee lass a swig uh' the whiskey beneath me seat. It'll calm her poor wee nerves. If I'm not back in three hours, or Skinner or someone like tha', drive, an; drive far away. A'll be back!"

And with that, he turned the tractor around and headed back to the horrible battle. Lisa clung onto Bart, shivering horribly.

"Lis', you alright?"

She cried silently into his shoulder.

"Did…they touch you?"

"…No…but…oh Bart! I was so scared!"

"Shh-shh…it's okay…it's all over…"

Nelson opened the door for them. Lisa sat between him and Bart in the back seat. Jimbo gave her the flask of whiskey, and Lisa took a small sip. The hot, fiery liqueur burned her young mouth, but the heat in her belly and the slight, fuzzy headache took away the shuddering and nausea. Nelson patted her on the back. _He's always been like that…treated me like one of the guys…_she thought

"How 'bout some tunes?" suggested Dolph. He turned on the radio.

"And now, the original version of 'Dooley'!" said the announcer.

"_I met 'er on the mountain, and there I took her liiiife!_

_I kicked, and punched and slapped her,_

_then stabbed 'er wit' ma kniiiife!"_

Jimbo quickly changed stations. Warren Zevon's "Excitable Boy" was playing.

"_And he raped her and killed her,_

_then he took her home,_

'_Excitable boy'…"_

"No music," Lisa said bitterly.

Willie returned to the smoke-filled warehouse. He drew an enormous black powder musket and fired, sending one of the young villains flying across the room. Moe blasted wildly with his shotgun. Seamus, having received some sniper training during his brief stint with the IRA, carefully placed each shot in a joint or major nerve.

Kirk was aflame with rage. He fired left, he fired right. He shattered windows; his shots hit the brick wall and ricocheted about wildly. A large bullet struck his jaw. He jerked the trigger in pain, then turned towards his attacking, cocked his rifle, and squeezed. Nothing. He began to reload, dropping several shells, fumbling with the clip. Another bullet struck him in his gut. The world went gray and misty. As he fell to the ground, he thought of his life: his lost job, his faithless wife, his son, doomed to be a loser like himself, raped, mutilated, cut down in the prime of his life. His mother…who would care for her now? And now he was dieing. He smiled.

Skinner saw Kirk fall. He quickly pulled a grenade from his belt, bit the clip off, and tossed it at the child who had shot his friend. He flung himself to the ground and covered his neck.

Blam.

The child was sent flipping and flailing though the air. His comrades were skewered with hot shrapnel. Moe was struck in the eye and fell, swearing and writhing in pain. Skinner stood, placed a fresh clip in his rifle, and fixed the bayonet. He charged, firing from the hip, skewering the frightened children. Seamus, out of ammo, fixed his bayonet and did the same. Willie cast aside his musket, ran to his tractor, and grabbed his mighty Wallace Claymore. He drew the enormous blade from it's scabbard, and charged into the bloody fray. Before the three, the frightened punks flew like chaff in the autumn breeze.

Three children, their nerves failing, their ammunition spent, and their pants in desperate need of laundering, made a quick break for the door. They immediately turned around, when met with the sight of a tank speeding towards them. They dashed out of its way just as it burst through the wall and sent chunks of stone and mortar flying. Homer, armed with his shotgun, and Herman, toting a mini-gun, emerged.

"Now that my children are out of harm's way, I can kill indiscriminately! Take that! Whupie-kye-yi-yay, mother furker!" cried Homer, decapitating a lad of but twelve summers with a spray of deer shot. Herman started up the mini-gun, drawing a jagged line of bullet holes on the brick wall. Ralph stood smiling. The path of the mini-gun passed over him. He fell. He was still smiling.

The fight was bloody and quick. It seemed that victory was certain for the gun-toting civilians.

A noise, like a mighty, roaring wind was heard. Everyone stopped and stood silently, looking skywards. All the upper windows shattered, and men in black combat armor leapt through. They leveled their guns at the chests of all those present. Several more men in S.W.A.T. gear charged in through the doors and proceeded to disarm and handcuff all present. Those who were resisted were maced. A man in a trench coat and porkpie swaggered in and looked about. He whispered to one of the S.W.A.T. men and Homer, Marge, and all the adults were promptly unchained.

"Sorry bout that," he said in a Boston Irish accent, "Agent Malone, FBI regional director. I got a call earlier from a "Maximilian Frink" that a lot of "weird stuff" was going on in the old spirograph factory in Springfield. Looks like the tip was right. It seems like you fella's just busted solved one of the worst occult murder cases in the country's history. Who's in charge 'ere?"

"Lt. Seymour Skinner, sir!"

"Lieutenant, eh? Where's the police?"

"Disbanded, sir. The chief was murdered, and the already sparse police force either skipped town or quit. City council ruled that the local militia would police the streets in their absence, sir. We are the militia."

"Hmm…I see a carbine on yer shoulder, Lieutenant…no no, don't worry, I'm as for gun rights as the rest of us. Heheh. Without these illegal weapons y'all got, I doubt you would've stopped these kids. Anyhow, you'd best all go home. We'll round the rest of them up."

The brave men and blue-haired woman trekked out, smiling, victorious. Several black vehicles sat idling around the warehouse, yellow and red lights flashing from their roofs. Max Frink stood talking with his parents in front of his parent's car, talking to one of the FBI agents. An ambulance sat nearby, and the paramedics mere bandaging Moe's eye.

"Ah, sheesh. Now I have to keep turning my head to see if the rummies are stealing the beer."

"Wow, you were amazing Marge! It was just like in the movies!"

"Thanks…you sure you are alright Homie?"

"Naw, just a few flesh wounds. You?"

"A few cuts and scraps. I'll be alright."

They hugged.

"Ouch! I have a bullet hole there!"

"Sorry!"

Homer noticed Apu. He was slouching away dejectedly.

"Hey Apu! Alright?"

"Oh…yes. After all the times I've been shot, I've gotten used to it."

The Hindu limped away.


	11. Aftershock

Chapter Eleven: Aftershock

Rod sat in the cold, dim cell. The maddening moonlight shone through the barred window. He was in a straightjacket. He sat, back against the wall, half asleep. He heard a faint rustle, and looked up, his pulse pounding in his ears.

The room was still, as still as still can be. But he could just make out the sound of the FBI men down the hall, speaking in low, urgent voices. He sighed, and lowered his head. The events of the past months were a torrid blur of naked bodies and horrible dreams melding into horrible days. He hated himself, his flesh, his skin, and the desires that had once pulsed within his wicked heart, now replaced with horrible shame. _Why did I do those things? Why? I have become everything I hate…I am a monster. I want to die._

He heard the rustling again. Longer. Louder. Nearer. Todd saw something move in the cell across from him. He strained his eyes into the darkness. Fearing what he would see yet unable to rest until he knew. He looked. There was nothing there. He exhaled. His breathe was visible in the sudden chill. He shivered. He felt a cruel, noxious feeling in his gut. The room shook and tilted and rolled. His vision blurred and split and focused. He felt as though he was moving backward, as though his eyes were being pulled back into his skull. A sharp, white pain spread throughout his skull, down his veins. His ears filled with a white noise. He shuddered uncontrollably, trying to muster the strength to scream but finding that the strength merely disappeared within him.

"Ah! Ahh-ah-ah! AAAAHH!"

He felt as though something slimy was being forced down his throat, as though a poison was spilling into his lungs. His head swung back and forth. He tried to shake it from him, the feeling of a large snake uncoiling within his chest, of a tentacled beast reaching out from his brain.

"Did you hear that?"

"It's just the kid again. Go in an' tell him to shut up."

The agent took the keys and unlocked the door. He locked it behind himself. He walked down the dim, blue corridor. It was quiet now. He sauntered up to the door, and stood squarely on his feet. Turned on his flashlight and held it so that it shone upon the boy's hanging head.

"Hey kid…!"

The figure within looked up. The air was dark, the pale moonlight snuffed by a Shadow, and the dim, white light of the torch the only light in the dark cavern.

"Open…the…door…" called a deep and rumbling voice.

The agent shook his

"Open …the…door…"

The agent's trembling hand reached for his keys. His breathe now rose in cold puffs. The air was like a casket of ice around him. His mind faded into mist. The door opened. The leather straps had given way. The boy leapt.

"What the hell was that?" roared Agent Mallone. The men drew their weapons. One agent shot the lock, then kicked open the door. It swung open, hanging on it's weakened hinges. They rushed down the chilly hall, and found the young agent in a pool of his in a thick, red pool. His head looked up at them in shocked confusion. The body lay on it's front.

As they shook their heads and made plans for what to do, a small figure scuttled, spider-like, on the ceiling above them. It scurried out of the holding area, and into a vent. It got out on the roof. It leapt into the bushes. And it ran off into the night.

Jessica Lovejoy slept fitfully in her room. Daddy had paid her bail, yet again, but now her windows were barred, her door knob reversed so that it could be locked from the outside, a tracking anklet was tied to her leg, and a security camera showed her every move to her parents.

_An owl with long legs was striding through the mist. On it's head was a golden crown. It's eyes were as red as carbuncles, and gleamed like novae. A small Christmas orb, falling towards the ground. Faster, faster…speeding towards oblivion. It shattered, it's fragile beauty, ages in the making, was gone in an instant. The embers of the the furnace dimmed, and died. A wide, lidless, restless eye, wreathed in flame; seeing all, and nothing. A dark prince on a dark throne. A creature, androgynous, faceless, almost featureless, next to oblivion, crying out in the void. The owl was bending over, seizing a small, screaming infant in it's beak._

The door creaked open, a thin sliver of light fell across her face. She opened her eyes; her vision was blurry, the light caused her to wince. She sat up and stared at the door. It closed. _Probably just mom or someone checking on me._

She rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. But she hardly wanted to; her dreams had made her sleep restless and draining the past few nights. She thought that she may have damaged her brain: all the drugs and smoking and drinking…and what of her mind, her psyche? Could she ever recover from it all? From the porn, the sex, the torture, the cruel and frightening images…? Could she ever again be normal? Was she ever normal?

Something dropped one her from the ceiling. It was Todd. His skin was a grey, covered with gashes and scars. His eyes were pale, ghostly blue, with the albumin stained urine yellow. His dark red tongue was flickering, light a snake's, in and out of his open mouth.

Jessica screamed and struggled to get from beneath him. He seized her wrists and leered at her. Thick, noisome yellow gas bellowed from his bowels. Her wrists were now in his one hand, and with his other, he forced open her mouth. He placed his on hers, and forced his tongue, swirling, into her throat. She gagged and gasped, tears falling from her eyes. _This is what I get. I deserve this,_ She thought as her will gave way.

The door flung open. Her father stood with his gun, and behind him was her mortified mother, holding a golf club and a flashlight.

"Jeeesus CHRIST!" her father screamed, lowering his gun in fear and disgust. The monster looked at him and screeched. It leapt. The Reverend fired, but the creature had struck the barrel and the shot impacted on the wall. The creature knocked the man off his feet with the force of his jump. Mrs. Lovejoy screamed as the creature straddled her husband's chest and bit his neck, pulling off a huge piece of skin. She swung the club and removed the beast from her husband's corpse. It stood on all fours and hissed like a cat. The reverend's wife, now his widow, walked backwards as the strange creature scuttled towards her like a crab. She fell over and screamed. It leapt right over her and charged to the bedroom. She heard the window shatter.

She crawled over to her husband.

"Jim…Jim! Wake up! C'mon JIM!"

"Daddy…I'm so sorry…"

Edna Krabbapel was content. She lay back in Skinner's mother's bed, enjoying the biting taste of a fresh cigarette. Seymour was in the bathroom, showering. She sighed and took a long, calming draw on her cig. _He is good…I was a fool to leave him._

The door creaked open. Edna smiled as she put out her cigarette in the ash tray by the bed and turned, hoping to see her beloved Seymour. Instead, it was Todd, wild-eyed and pale, with dried blood on his chin. He ran towards her. He flew over the footboard and landed on her. Edna thought briefly of her pepper spray, in her purse, downstairs. Todd's cold, clammy hands seized her head. His thumbs were on her closed eyes. He began to press. He began to turn his thumbs down. He was punched hard in the temple and sent careening into the wall. Skinner stood, in his shorts and tank top, in killing mode. Edna got out of the bed and ran behind his as the freak regained it's feet and hopped on the bed. It threw a punch. Skinner blocked and countered. The creature countered the counter-punch with a kick, followed with a kick to Skinner's face. The kick connected, and hurt, but it took far more than that to defeat Skinner. The fight raged on, moving out of the bed room and down the hall. The beast was more flexible and agile than the forty-one year-old, but Skinner was strong and fit, his muscles remembered every move, every combination, every technique. His mind was a steel trap, a well-oiled machine. He blocked a kick then counter-kicked. He caught the beast off-balance, and punched. As the punch connected, the thing opened it's mouth and then closed. It's jagged teeth sunk into his clenched knuckles. He shook it violently. He seized it around the neck, and pinned it to the wall. It gurgled and squealed like a piglet.

"I called the police, they're one their way!" Edna said, running down the hall with Skinner's pistol in one hand and her cell phone in the other.

"Good…work…Edna," gasped the winded Skinner, struggling with the writhing Todd, "Now kindly go and get those handcuffs!"

With some difficulty and several more painful bites they managed to shackle the teenage monster and pin it to the wall. The FBI and local militia arrived and, after injecting the only living Flanders child with enough morphine to stun a sperm whale, hauled him from the house. Skinner had to be taken to the hospital for his wounds, and Edna went with him to make sure he was alright, and to have her eyes examined.

Todd was handcuffed, placed in a straight jacket, had his legs shackled, and was gagged with a ball gag. He was placed in the Overkille Wing of the unnecessarily-secure section of Springfield General Hospital.


	12. Yes, Your Excellency

Chapter Twelve: Yes, Your Excellency

"So," the old bishop said, resting his thin chin on his hand, "You believe that the culprits are possessed."

"Yes, I suspect it, Yer Excellency."

"On what grounds?" he said, raising his bushy gray eyebrows.

"Many small clues. The heinous nature of the crimes, the deviant sexual behavior said to have been goin' on in that place, the fact that they were, after all, serious Satanists, and…Your Excellency, this," he said breathlessly, producing a newspaper. The main headline read **_"Child Murderers Caught"._**

"The…the side story, your Excellency."

The bishop nodded and turned to see it. "Leader of Child Satanists Apprehended After Violent Showdown." The Bishop read the first few sentences.

_"The leader of the adolescent devil-worshippers was caught sometime after three this morning after a fierce struggle with the police. Theodore Flanders, known to his followers as Todd Ukubak, was found running naked through the streets at the corner of Maple and Sherman. The police cornered him in a blind alley, and attempted to subdue him with pepper spray, but to no effect. Tazers were used, but to no avail." _

_"'It took pepper spray, mace, fifteen tazers, and a dart loaded with rhino tranquilizer to bring 'im down. An even after that, he still had enough strength to resist the handcuffs. He even bit the paramedic taking his pulse. I've only seen that sort of thing in gang bangers hoped up PCP.'"_

_"Blood tests for PCP, cocaine, anabolic steroids, and other drugs that would have given a sixteen-year-old boy the strength of a sumo wrestler, came back negative. Hair and urine testing showed that the boy had been using heroin sporadically, but no substantial amounts of the drug were found in his system…"_

"Hmm…"

"Your Excellency, I think that it may be necessary, at the very least, to examine the boy. Talk to his friends and family. Go over his records and make sure that he isn't just a dope-using hooligan or, a schizoid or product of a broken home. But, given all that I've heard, the boy, at the very least, has been touched by the power of evil, and has invited the possibility of possession."

There was a brief, yet pronounced paused.

"Very well. Go back to Springfield. Talk to his school mates, and his father, and his doctors. Get his medical records, and look for head injury, abnormal brain activity, epilepsy, ADHD, and other such ailments. Talk to any and all psychiatrists who have seen him, and see if there are any known personality disorders, or history of severe emotional trauma that could possibly manifest itself in such a fashion. If absent, notify me at once, and proceed to interview the boy. Look for the classic signs. If the classic signs do manifest, I am to be notified at once, and his family consents, you have my full permission to perform the ritual. Now go!"

"Yes, Your Excellency," the Jesuit said, and he kissed his ring.


	13. A Visit to the Simpsons

Chapter Fourteen: A Visit to the Simpsons

Father O'Flaherty knocked on the door. Homer opened it.

"Look pal, we don't need any Bibles. Go sell them to Flanders."

"No, no, sir. I'm not sellin' the Good Book. I'm Father James O'Flaherty. I would like to talk to you and your family for a while. May I?"

"No. Go'way!" And Homer slammed the door.

"I have some free rosaries!"

"Free!?"

Father O'Flaherty sat with the Simpsons. Marge had a tray of coffee and donuts set out. Homer sat, donut in one hand, free rosary in the other. Lisa sat, hands in her lap, her long, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, a few stubborn locks forming part of her old "pokey" hairstyle. Bart was dressed casually, and sat, acting disinterested, looking at the ceiling. Little Maggie was wearing a long-sleeved blue shirt and jeans, and sat on the floor by her father's feet, staring at the strange new visitor in their home.

"Mmm, thank you." The father said as Marge handed him a small cup of coffee.

"Now, firs' off, let me just tell you how sorry I am fer all yer troubles. And poor Reverend Lovejoy, ach! God rest all Christian souls! But not, I 'ave a question: where are you going to church now that the Reverend is dead and Willie has taken over preaching on Sundays?"

We see a brief shot of Willie behind the pulpit, in his work shirt and overalls. He says to the congregation:

"If ye don' eat yer meat, ye cana' 'ave any puddnin'. 'Ow can ye ave yer pudding' if ye don't eat yer meat?"

"Well…hrmmm…we haven't exactly been going to church on Sundays since then," Marge explained hesitantly.

"Well…" the priest thought how as to best phrase what he wished to say, "You could come to St. Anthony's. It's my church, it's three blocks west from Moe's, so it's actually a little closer than yer old church. Plus, I can personally guarantee that each Mass is, at most, an hour in length."

"Well, I don't know…" said Marge. She had liked their old church; she had gone there as a child, as had here mother before her, and she had always hoped to raise her children and see them marry in and take _their_ children to the First Church of Springfield.

"Wait, that's a Catholic Church, right?" asked Bart.

"Yes…"

Lisa rolled her eyes. She had turned to God, yes, and she had grown increasingly distant from Buddhism since the incident, but she still was Lisa Simpson, skeptic, vegetarian, environmentalist, and feminist. The Church to her was an instrument of cultural aggression and misogyny. It was responsible for the Crusades and the Inquisitions and the enslavement of the Indians of Peru; it had perpetuated gender inequality and was one of the few denominations that still barred women from being priests.

Father O'Flaherty could see what she was thinking, and, in addition to that, saw her "N.O.W." T-shirt and "Native American Rights" and "Free Tibet" bracelets.

He gave her a very serious look. She looked at him.

"Do not judge the Church on what people who have professed to belong to it have done. They sinned. All men do. The Church is composed of weak, foolish, sinful human being in need of God's love and mercy. They can sin. But the Church was created by God, and is forever the Bride of Christ. Yes, the Church is referred to in female terms." he grinned.

"I don't now," said Homer, "It isn't one of those churches where they're all 'do this' 'do that' 'don't drink' 'don't have sex' 'Harry Potter this' and 'Halloween is the Devil that'?"

"No, the Catholic Church is very reasonable in it's demands. Drinking is perfectly fine, smoking too, as long as you don't do it so much that ye kill yerself. Halloween is perfectly fine: in fact, we invented it!"

"I'm sold!" said Bart.

"Oh brother!" sighed Lisa.

"Lisa," Fr. O'Flaherty said, leaning towards her, and looking at her intensely, "Do you know who the most important person, aside from Jesus, Our Lord, is the most important in the Catholic Church?"

"The Pope?" she answered, rolling her eyes. She was growing increasingly irritated by the man.

"Mary."

Lisa perked up and looked at him.

"Really?"

"Yes. 'Blessed art thou amongst all women'. She is the Queen of Heaven. And Our Mother. She is very dear to us Catholics." And with this, he took two more rosaries and handed one to Lisa, and one to Maggie. Maggie smiled slightly and placed it around her neck. The father smiled, then bent over and took it off of her neck and placed it in her hands.

"No, little one, the rosary is not t'be warn as a necklace. Hold a second though!"

He rummaged through his briefcase, then brought out a silver medal on a sparkling chain.

"St. Margaret, patroness of Scotland, protector and reformer of the Church there. May her prayers always protect you, little one."

Maggie smiled, and looked at her shiny new medal. She placed it around her neck with her old pacifier.

"Bart, you have a patron too, y'know?"

"Hmm?"

"St. Bartholomew, one of the Apostles. A wonderful saint." He explained as he handed him a medal.

Bart looked at it. _Cool_ he thought. _I can where it around school. Show off some bling-bling._

"Lisa…I don't have a St. Lisa medal, but I do have this," he said as he handed her a Miraculous Medal, "It is the Miraculous Medal of Our Lady. Wear it always. Ask always for her prayers and guidance. The power of the prayers of The Virgin is great. For at the Wedding at Cana, she asked Our Lord for a miracle, and though He said it was not yet time to reveal Himself to the world, he did so because His Mother, the Virgin Conceived Without Sin, asked Him to do so. Her prayers can save a soul standing on the edge of hell."

"And, I might as well give you two something as well. Marjorie, I have for you a medal of St. Anne, mother of Our Lady, patron Saint of Mothers. And for you Homer, a medal of St. Joseph, the husband of Our Lady and the adopted father of Our Lord, patron saint of fathers."

"Woohoo! More free-bees!"

"Thank you father. But…I don't know. I mean, do we have do stuff…you know, go to classes and get re-baptized and such?"

"Have you and your husband been Baptized before?"

"Yes. I was baptized at First Church of Springfield, and so was Homie."

"Well, you don't have to be baptized again. It counts as long as water is used, they say 'I Baptize thee in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.'"

"What if they say 'you'?" asked Homer.

"Still counts. The only baptisms that aren't valid are those in the Mormon, Quaker, Jehovah's Witness, and Seventh Day Adventist faiths, and that is because they either use an invalid ritual or don't believe in what one has to believe in to be a Christian, like Jesus is the Son of God and such."

"However, before you can receive the Eucharist, be confirmed, and fully participate in the Church as adults, you must go through RCIA classes. We have them every Wednesday at six o'clock. Sister Francis teaches them, she very nice. And, for your children, we have our youth meetings that night, so you don't have to pay for a babysitter."

"Hmmm…what do you think, Marge?"

"Huh…"

"Have the children been baptized?"

"Umm…no…we…we never…"

"Uh! Say no more! I can Baptize them next Friday at five thirty, after your husband comes home to help you with the baby! Just like that!"

"How much?" Homer asked suspiciously.

"Free! Do you 'spect me to charge for saving their souls?"

"Do I have to go to Sunday school?" Bart asked.

"No, but in order to receive the Eucharist and be confirmed you have to go to classes on Wednesday, like your parents. You'd be going there anyway, and plus, you can't fail a CCD class, boy-o: they don't grade yeh, and every utter answer is 'Jesus'!"

"Hrmm…"

"Plus, getting confirmed is like a Catholic Bar Mitzfah."

"Do I get a party?"

"I you want!"

"Can I stomp on a glass cup?"

"Er…sure! And, unlike those silly Jews, we confirm our girls too!"

"The Jews have a female equivalent to the Bar Mitzfah call the Bath Mitzfah." Lisa said incredulously.

"Yes, but we have the same name and same ceremony for both. And always have! Aren't we fair? Mmm…this is good coffee. Well, I hope I haven't bothered you at all. I hope to see you all on Sunday at seven, nine, or eleven. Oh! One more t'ing! You can come to the Mass at six on Saturday night, and I keep it short as I can, and it counts as going to church on Sunday!"

"Cool!" exclaimed Bart. "We could sleep in on Sunday!"

"Yay!" said Maggie quietly.

"You've given me a lot to think about," Homer said. He placed his hand on his chin. We see in his head a bunch of dancing leprechauns. "A lot to think about."

The father finished off his coffee, then said his farewells to the family and was on his way. Marge was kind enough to see him to the door and help him with his coat.

"Thank ye very much, Mrs. Simpson." he paused, the asked, "How were the boys, the neighbor boys, before…?"

"They were so nice," she said, shaking her head, "They always said 'please' and 'thank-you', they went to bed at six and woke up at five. They did their chores without complaining and even offered to help other kids with their own if they finished their ahead of time. Their favorite pastimes were praying, reading the Bible, and watching 'Davey and Goliath'."

"Hmmm…thank you."

And he left for the Flanders' home.


	14. At the Flanders' Home

Chapter Fifteen: At the Flanders' Home

Father O'Flaherty knocked on Ned's door. After some time, it opened. Ned, predictably, was in no fair condition at all. His eyes were swollen and red. Tears had blazed their trails across his sullen face. John Denver music was playing loudly.

"Yes…can I help you?" he asked politely.

"Mr. Flanders…it's about yer son. I need to speak with you. May I come In?"

Ned said nothing. He moved away from the door, leaving it open. The priest paused, then entered. He followed the mellow sounds of "Country Roads" to the den, where Ned sat sobbing, his head in his hands, a glass of B&B Bourbon on the coffee table.

Father O'Flaherty sat in the couch opposite of where Ned was sitting. He set his briefcase down on the floor, then steepled his fingers, running briefly through his plan of action.

"Mr. Flanders…I have come to you today, because I have reason to believe that your child, Theodore, is possessed by a demon."

Ned gasped. He looked up at the priest, his teary eyes were brimming with anger and grief.

"I can not say fer sure, though. Wit' your permission, I can talk to the boy, though. I will then be able to tell you whether or not I can help your son."

Ned looked at the ground. His glasses slid down the bridge of his sweaty nose. He seized his hair with both hands and pulled as hard as he could.

"Please…it may be the only chance we have to get yer son back…"

O'Flaherty sat silently and looked for a moment upon the broken man that was once Ned Flanders. He was shaking now, whether with rage or sadness or sickness, or some combination of the three, he did not know. He felt that he should not have come, that he should not have compounded the man's grief, telling him that the Devil was controlling his son. He took his briefcase, and stood up. He turned and headed for the door.

"…Why him, Father? Why _him_?"

The priest turned. Ned was looking at him now. His eyes held no anger, only desperation and grief.

"I do not know…but whatever the reason…we can help him."

"I…give you my permission… They're keeping him in the Unnecessarily Secure wing, of the John Terrance Overkille ward."

"Thank you."


	15. I am the Shadow

Chapter Sixteen: I Am the Shadow

The guards checked his briefcase. They made him walk through the metal detector. Then they made him turn while they punched in the secret code on the keypad. He turned back when they said it was alright, and watched as they unlocked the five locks on the door. They lead him through. He was now in a Plexiglas box. There was a loud, electronic noise, and the door opened. He stepped through. He was now in the Unnecessarily Secure Wing of Springfield General.

The Wing was shaped like a large octopus; multiple arms branching out from a central head. Around the start of each 'arm', each row of cells, was a large box, made of bulletproof glass, coated on each side with over three inches of Plexiglas. The door had both mechanical locks and electronic ones. The mechanical locks could be unlocked by any of the guards with one of their keys, but the electronic locks could only be operated by the door operator, who sat in the center of the 'head', in a Plexiglas cylinder, operating the door controls.

An armed guard greeted the father, and asked him what the purpose of his visit was. He showed him his papers, one signed by Ned Flanders, one signed by Agent Mallone and Seymour Skinner, and one signed by Dr. Hibbert, all authorizing his visit. The guard grimaced.

"Here. Go wait over there by the Plexiglas box labeled "Overkille". I'll show these to the door operator, and he'll open it for us."

The Father went over to the Okerkille ward's door. Of all the Plexiglas boxes, it was the only one that nurses were not going to and from, and was the only one whose door was guarded by two armed guards. The guard walked over to the operator, and knocked on the side of his cylinder. He looked up from his "Playdude" with a start, then, seeing his co-worker, asked him his intentions through gestures. The guard held up the papers, and the operator nodded and pressed a button on his enormous control panel, opening a small slot. The guard slid the papers in. The operator looked the papers over, nodded, and handed them back through the slot.

"Here you go, padre."

"Thank you."

The operator pressed the button. There was a loud, shrill noise, and a green light began to flash above the Plexiglas door. The guard took his ring of keys of his belt, and, after some searching, placed the appropriate key in the lock. He opened the door, and led the Father in. He closed the door, and locked it. He waved to the operator, who pressed the appropriate button, locking the door. The guard then walked over to the heavy steel door of the ward, and, after punching in the appropriate code in on the buttons, inserted his key in the lock on the door, and twisted. He then cranked the large lock open, and pushed open the heavy door.

The corridor was silent. Steel doors, with Plexiglas-coated bulletproof windows, lined the wall. Only one, the third on the right, was surrounded by armed guards.

"Okay," said the guard, "It takes a seven-number password here, plus a key, to unlock the door. One of those guards can open it for ya. Have fun."

The door closed. The priest felt as though he had descended into the bowels of the earth, cut off from the living. He walked over to the door, and showed the guards his papers. They nodded. _Is that all anyone does here?_ One went for the door, placing his key in the lock, while the other three drew their weapons and stood, ready to fire upon whatever it was that dwelt within. The door opened. Silence. Darkness. Father went forth into the blackness.

The cell was dark. The only light cam from a single window, barred with titanium-cobalt bars, high up on the brick wall. Two bed, one on each side of the room. A toilet. A sink. plink….plink.

On the left-hand bed, sat Todd Flanders. His face was partly hidden in shadow.

"_Hello, Father…"_ he said in a low, trembling voice.

The priest sat down on the opposite bed, and opened his briefcase. Inside it was a high-quality digital recorder. He turned it on. He set it on 'record'.

"Hello, Theodore. It's nice to meet you, boy-o. I'm Father O'Flaherty. You can call me 'Fr. Patty', if ye want." He said sweetly, placing his papers in the briefcase, and taking out a small notepad and pencil.

The creature on the bed smiled and tilted his head.

"Todd?..." he asked, in the smooth, oily voice, "Oh yes, the little one! He heard you. **_We_** heard you."

"Who is 'we'?"

"Don't you like little girls?" the thing asked, "Their little vaginas, I find, are just exquisite!"

Father O'Flaherty struggled not to gag. He grimaced and placed his hand to his chin, then jotted something down in his notebook.

"Or do you prefer little boys? Don't fight it, padre. I know you, you sick fuck! You like little, innocent boys, don't you now? Their bright little eyes, their tight little asses…**_look at me, Father!_** It's rude, you know. I invite you in, let you ask me prying questions, and you look away when I'm speaking to you!"

"…Right then. When were you born?"

"eh-July 4th, 1776. Gaheee-eee-hheee-eh-heh!" he answered in a raspy voice.

"What are the names of your father and mother?"

"God and…God!"

"Your earthly father and mother."

"Get up, ye lazy git! JesusMaryn'Joseph! The cows a' screamin' ta be milked ya' lazy!"

Father O'Flaherty paused. That voice…that was a voice he had hoped to never here again.

"What did you say?"

"I said....stick it in yer' rear, fruitcake!"

Time for the real questions.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Aren't they beautiful?" asked a sweet, childish voice from the creature's mouth.

"And at sunset, the light shines through them, and they make rainbows!"

"What does?" asked the priest.

"Why, the crystals do! See them? They're hanging right from the ceiling there!"

The child pointed at a spot on the barren ceiling. The priest looked, out of curiosity, and having seen nothing, shook his head.

The thing lunged at him. The chains went taught. His teeth, cracked and yellowed, gnashed but a few inches from the Father's face. He stared the beast in it's yellowed eyes

"What is thy name, demon? I command ye, in the name of Jesus Christ-"

"-Fuck him!"

"You tell me thy name! What is it!"

"Bite me, Danny-boy!"

The priest sat, stoically, looking at the thing_. It's eyes…how could this be a human being? How could God have made this? How could He allow it's very existence?_

He reached into his open briefcase and took out a small flask. He opened it, and took a brief sip to steady his nerves. He wiped his mouth, sealed the flask, and put it away. The thing was looking upset, having neither angered nor frightened his quarry. He sat back down. A look of utter sadness was in his eyes. He looked at the priest.

"Do you like movies? I love movies. My favorites are 'The Godfather Parts I and II', 'Dawn of the Dead', the new one and the old one, they're all good…books, I like books…'Da Vinci Code', that's a good one. Really well written, one of the best books of the last five years, I say…"

"Personally," Father O'Flaherty replied, "I didn't like the book. I found it painful to read, and full of historical exaggerations and even blatent lies!"

"That's because they've brainwashed you, poor, pitiful fool," came an aged, yet powerful voice from Todd's throat, "They've blinded you, blinded you the _real_ truth. _I can help you._ My domain is hidden wisdom. I can tell you every thing that you _wish to know_-"

"-Ye mean what I _wish to hear_!"

"Don't interrupt!!" snapped a woman's voice, "It's quite rude!"

"Get up off yer ass, boy!

The priest stood, a grave look on his face. The monster smiled. He reached into his briefcase, and took out a silver flask. He opened it, and began to splash it's contents on the child.

"**_AHHHH! OHHH! GOD, IT BURNS! IT BURNS!"_**

The creature fell on the ground. Vomit gurgled up from it's mouth, and it's eyes rolled up into it's sockets.

"Sal**_ots_** MaI…Ma I Owh Ouy let liw i…" was what it said as it lay on the floor.

"Which demon are you?"

"**_dratsab_** g'nikuf Uy, **_Enola_** kuf e't Em Evae-eel."

"**_Wodahs _**e't Ma i."

"**_SRouy_** hu klat dednim **_Ih_** siht vhu **_nun Dna_**"

"Why are you in this boy?"

"**_Em_** _detivni_ ee-h."

"When will you leave?"

"Rethtom sih ekil, esproc ythlif a zi eh new!"

"DetcivNoC shI Eh R'tfa."

"!**_Rev_**en!"

The think sat straight up and grabbed the priest by the collar. He tried to pull away, but it grabbed him by the wrist.

"Guard!"

The thing looked at him. The strange, pale light had left it's eyes; they were brown now, and were so tired, and red with swollen blood vessels. The skin was still pale, yet some of the natural yellow had returned to it.

"Help me…"

The door flung open. One guard pulled the priest away, while the another hit him with a tazer. The child fell, shaking violently, teeth chattering.

"You alright, padre?"

"Yes…my briefcase, please?"

"Oh, sure."

He fetched the priest's bag, holding open. The priest took the recorder out, hit 'Stop', then closed the bag. He looked at the boy, who was strapped in by the two other guards.

"He's out again!"

"Good. I'm sick of hearing that howlin'!"

"Does he sleep well?"

"Him? Never. I mean," he stood up, adjusting his cap, "He goes out like that, but the doctors say that his brainwaves are still the same as when he's awake and cussin' and swearin'. One shrink said that it's all in his mind, you know? I don't know. Ask, um, Dr. Scheidimantel. He'd know."

"Thank you."

He looked back at the boy, then left.

"Well, padre, he's certainly the strangest case I've ever seen," explained the young psychiatrist. The priest was sitting in the doctor's office. He was holding his briefcase in his lap. The young doctor, with curly dark hair and ruddy skin, was wearing his white suit, and, despite the health code regulations, was smoking.

"You see, the boy has a common complex: he knows something is wrong, that he would get in trouble if he was caught, and that is why he does it. It's a form of a thrill-seeking personality. He likes taking the risk, in addition to enjoying whatever pleasure is inherent in whatever activity is that he is not supposed to be doing. Of course, that is not unusual. Many young teens do that: sneaking off to have sex, drinking in the woods, smoking in the school bathrooms; stupid, reckless behavior, just for the sake of doing it."

"But it's not just that. You see, he is a true psychopath: he is technically sane, that is, in the clinical sense. He can tell the difference between right and wrong, he is not disconnected from reality, or the effects of his actions. But he, quite simply, he doesn't care. It is what was once called 'moral degeneracy' or 'moral insanity'."

"Also, he has been diagnosed as having a genuine case of multi-personalities. He has several, several of which are more sedate, some benign, and some out-and-out violent. He has several that are quite vicious, others that seem completely distant and detached from reality, and his 'normal' personality, which is the one we have seen the least of, so far, which is that of a frightened sixteen-year-old named Todd Flanders, who fears that he has completely screwed up his life and his family."

He paused, taking a long draw on his cig. He sighed, exhaling blue smoke, and stared out the window.

"He has numerous 'paraphilias', that is, unnatural sexual urges. First of all, he, when he is in one of his more sexual personalities, he seems equally attracted to males and females, that is, he is bisexual. He is also attracted to young children, pedophilia. He is attracted to death, and dead persons; necrophilia. He loves to see, and what's more, _inflict_ pain on other persons. Sadism. Again, the thrill of doing something forbidden, but he also derives sexual excitement from it, the way a heterosexual person might derive sexual excitement from kissing a beautiful girl or viewing pornography. For the standard sadist, the concept of normal sexual activity, mutual pleasure, giving of oneself, is lost, replaced with an obsession with pain, the belief that only in causing others pain can one receive pleasure. But, I'm afraid, that with a case as complex and downright unusual as Todd's, normal explanations go right out the door.

"How so, doctor?"

"Well, first off, he manifests strange, animalistic behavior, in addition to the aforementioned disorders and paraphilias, behavior that would lead one to believe that the child is not psychotic but psychopathic: completely insane, experiencing frequent, elaborate hallucinations that, to him, are indistinguishable from reality, and reason and logic are no longer forces at work in his mind. That is what I thought, until I interviewed him. Yes, he was profane, he cussed, he swore, he made strange gestures, he told deliberate lies, he evaded and ignored questions, but, all in all, knew what he was doing, and, when he wanted to, answered my questions, both the control questions and random questions, truthfully. And, of the seven other psychiatrists who have interviewed him, only one has said otherwise."

"Then we come to his scans and tests. Yes, when he was initially caught, he had trace amounts of opium and marijuana in his blood. But, by the time he was re-captured, all the trace toxins had left his system. His previous records showed no history of drug abuse, accidental poisoning, abnormal mercury exposure, or severe head trauma. His recent head X-rays show no skull abnormalities. We have performed EKG's, CAT scans, PET scans, MRI's, even an ultrasound, just to be safe, and nothing out of the ordinary has showed up…kind of."

"'Kind of', doctor?"

"Well, I said that because of his brainwave measurements. During sleep, there are no changes in his brainwaves, whatsoever. It is truly unusual. Also, during his "sleep cycles", his heart rate, blood pressure, and body temperature plummet far beyond normal levels. It is as though his mind is still active, yet his body has ceased to function. Really, I stumped."

"Hmm…may I have copies…you know, of all these medical records?"

"What for?" he asked, putting out his cigarette.

"For his father t'see. I was sent 'ere by him to, you know, try an' talk to his son for him…poor man, he can hardly function, 'e's so distraught. I thought I could talk to his son, cause I'm his new pastor, y'know, and I thought I could pick up the records for him t'see, y'know?"

"Hmm…" the young doctor had to think about it. Yes, the doctor-patient laws maintained privacy, but if he was the family's minister, and was sent by the boy's father…plus, every had read that the boy, while sane, acted totally insane in the papers. What harm could it do?

"Sure. Here." And he stood up, and got the boy's rather thick file out of his file cabinet.

"Thank ye, doctor."

"No probl'm," he said, lighting another cigarette.

"I must be goin' now. Nice meetin' ya, Doctor Scheidimantel."

"You too, father. Take care now."

That evening, the Jesuit paid a visit to the Frink household. He needed the Frinks' technological expertise to help him with the tapes he had made of the boy's babbling. He knocked on the door of their "retro-chic" abode. It was Celia Frink who answered the door.

"Oh, good evening, Father. And what brings you here, gnoi-hvaiving?

"I was wondering if your husband and yourself might help me with a tape I have made of the Flanders boy's interview. May I?"

"Why of course, burhavin'-knavin'. Enter, if you so please, the Frink home!"

"Thank you."

As he stepped inside, a robotic coat rack approached him.

"Take your hat and coat, sir?" it inquired in a halting, metallic drone.

The priest smiled and placed his hat and coat on the strange machine, then followed Mrs. Frink. They passed through the living room, where Max and Larry were watching TV.

"Hello, Max!"

"Helloe, mr.-father-poyson!" he replied.

He walked with the lady of the house to the laboratory in the back, where the professor was tinkering with a large machine that was partly concealed by a large, white shroud.

"Jonnie, we have a guest, gloy-fleeving. It's Father O'Flaherty. He needs the sound-diviso-tron."

"Oh, goodness gracious, Father O'Flaherty, furlavin-navin! Of course, by all means!"

The Father handed the tape to the professor, and he placed it in a large in a large, complicated machine.

"It's really quite simple, you see. The tape is played through, and the data is processed in the computer. It plays it through, forwards and backwards, at various speeds, and records each one as a separate file. Files, aside from the original, that contain more than two words from the English language, are marked, and then it is the simple task of the operator to listen to all of those tracks. Galvin-Glavin! So what are you looking for, O Padre-poyson? Some, Freudian-like slips, some sublimin**_al_ **messa**_gore_**s?"

"Something…"

"Jonnie, we have something, d'ho-d'hloiving!" called Mrs. Frink, who been listening to the various tracks.

They walked over, and she handed the priest her headphones while she made a few final adjustments.

"I heard something when the tracks are played backwards at normal speed. I've set it so that it plays your questions in order, then plays his answer backwards at normal speed."

The priest placed the headphones on his head. He looked to Prof. Frink, then to Mrs. Frink, and nodded. She pressed play.

"I will tell you who I am…I am Stolas!"

"Who are you?"

"An' nun 'a yer high talk'a yers!"

_That voice...No…it can't be…they told me…He is dead!_

"Leave me the fuck alone, ya fuckin' bastard!"

It was a child's voice, a child of but thirteen years...a child who had had enough…

"I am the Shadow!"

The third voice was familiar. But it came not from the priest's distant past, but from his days as a young priest, a Jesuit and a scholar. He was in Armenia…

"Why are you in this child?"

"He _invited_ me!"

"When will you leave the boy?"

"NEVER!"

"After the conviction!"

"When he's a filthy corpse, like his mother!"

He took the headphones off.

"You feelin' good, Father? You're looking ill, what with the paleness, and the not breathing, and I'm shutting up now…"

"I need my tape back, please. And I'd like a copy of what I just heard, please."

That night, he returned to the Flanders' home.

"Mr. Flanders, d'ya have any tapes of Todd speaking before the incident?"

"Maybe…oh, I have a good one! Just wait!" He rushed into the basement. The priest heard Flanders yell:

"Homer! What the F-U-D-G-E are you doin' in my basement?"

"Tending my mushrooms, of course! The real question is 'what are you doning in _my_ basement'?"

"But this is _my _basement, Homer! Is that my coffee you're fertilizing your mushrooms with?"

"And if it is?"

Five minutes later, Ned emerged holding a cassette.

"Rod made it last November. It's a tape he was goin' to send to Maude…my wife, up in Heaven. If it can be of any help…"

"Thank you. Thank you Ned. Ye've been so brave in all'uh this."

"Father…why my boys? Of all the kids in Springfield…?"

"Ned, I can not be certain. But this is my guess: the were so sheltered from the evils of the world, that, when exposed to the world in all it's evil the had no immunity. The had never dealt with evil or temptation; the had never had the chance to resist temptation."

All that night, Father O'Flaherty worked on his letter to the Bishop, detailing all that had gone on in his investigation. He faxed the letter to the Bishop, then took a copy of the letter and placed it in a large parcel, along with copies of Todd's medical records, copies he had made of the three tapes, photocopies of his notes, documents from the court case, newspaper clippings, and pictures of Todd, taken before, during, and after the crimes. That morning, after Mass, he mailed it to the Bishop by express mail.

One day. Two Days. Three Days. Four. Five. It was now the sixth day.

Father O'Flaherty locked the new, steel-reinforced church doors, and headed home for lunch. He had just heard and hour of confessions, and his mind was in a fog. During confessions, he was in a strange trance, listening, aware, yet feeling as though he was somewhere else, as though he was Someone else. As he came within sight of the rectory, he saw Seamus holding a letter.

"Father! Yu've got a letter from th'Bishop!"

"Seamus, m'lad, are ye in the habit o' goin' through me mail?"

Seamus looked down in shame.

"Aye. Mea culpa."

The priest shook his head and took the letter from his friend's hands. He looked at it. It was addressed to him. And it _was_ from the Bishop. He opened it.

Whatever the answer would be, it was bad. The letter was short. Either way, there was not much to be said.

"To Father Patrick F. O'Flaherty, P.h.d., S.J.S.;

I grant you my official permission to perform the rite of exorcism on the child Theodore Flanders. Proceed with caution. May God bless and protect you, and the prayers of the Virgin be ever for us and our Church.

Yours in Christ,

Bishop Henry Ludkin

"Father…what is it?"

"I have somethin' t'do, Seamus. I've somethin' t'do…"


	16. The Priest, the Shadow, and the Light

Chapter Seventeen: The Priest, the Shadow, and the Light

The cell door opened.

"Hello, Father," crooned a deep bass voice.

The priest strode in, slowly, deliberately. A white cassock was over his black priestly garb. Behind him strode two small children: Bart Simpson, and Martin Prince. Both wore white robes over their black dress shirts. Bart carried the Holy Bible and a small crucifix, and Martin the _Rituale Romanum_ and a bottle of holy water.

Todd was strapped to a hospital bed in the center of the dark cell. The leg shackles on the floor were now clamped around the legs of the bed.

"So, priest, you come to me again. Again we meet." A shrill, bubbling laugh filled the air, "Bastard! Making this boy a contest between us! You don't care about him! This is all about you, you sick fuck!"

"Silence!" the priest commanded. He did not yell, yet he spoke with authority, and anger. The creature wrinkled it's face and spat upon the floor.

The Bible and crucifix were set on the bed on the wall. As he lowered the crucifix, Father O'Flaherty kissed it, and prayed.

"O Jesus, grant us through the merits of Thy many sufferings that by venerating on this earth the image of Thy Holy Face, upon which the very Angels long to gaze, that we made be made worthy to contemplate it forever in Heaven. Amen"

Martin took the _Rituale Romanum _and opened it to the page that he had bookmarked. He held it open for Father O'Flaherty. Bart knelt by the foot of the bed in silent prayer, a rosary in his hands.

"Your God is not here, fools!" a shrill, harsh voice called, "If He is everywhere, then where is He in this room? Where is He," it shrieked, a diarrheic flow oozing forth, a foul stench filling the air, "In this? This little freak?"

Father O'Flaherty took the bottle of holy water, and removed the stopper.

"Very well then," came a deep and malicious tone, "We shall _dance!_"

He grasped the bottle, then, crossing down, then left to right, then up, then down again, the father called out in a loud, clear voice:

"In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit!"

The thing screeched like an owl, writhing, pulling the cords taught.

"Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy Name,

Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done,

On earth a-"

The entire room gave a hideous lurch. A sweet, sickly stench billowed into the air.

"Ya lazy ingrate!" it screamed in an Irish brogue.

"-as it is in Heaven,

Give us this day our daily bread,

And forgive us our trespasses,

As we forgive those who trespass against us,

And lead us not into temptation-"

The room was chilling. Bart shivered, his breathes rising in thin puffs of mist. Martin shivered in his thin, white robe. The priest's hands were clenched hard in prayer, knuckles turning white. Long, think columns of mist shot up from the withered mouth.

"But deliver us from evil,

Amen."

"Amen," said the two boys in chorus.

"A-a-amen," mocked the demon, "Yes, lovely performance. Well rehearsed!"

"God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,

I appeal to Your Holy Name,

Humbly begging Your kindness,

That you may graciously grant me help against this unclean spirit-"

A strange and unearthly silence filled the room. A silence that pressed against Bart's eardrums. He opened his eyes, shaking with fear and cold, and saw the fox-like eyes staring back at him.

"The only unclean spirit in here is you, you vomitous ooze! Brat! Liar! Criminal! BASTARD! BASTARD!!! You're parents don't love you! You're only alive because there weren't any abortionists in Springfield then! You're a mistake! You're not wanted!"

"-unclean spirit now tormenting this creature of Yours-"

"HOW CAN THIS BE A CREATURE OF GOD?! THERE IS NO GOD IN ME!!!"

"Through Jesus Christ, Amen."

"Amen."

The thing that sat in the bed, the thing that looked like Todd, now grimaced in pain. It's lips pulled back in a hideous grimace. It snarled. It sat up straight and howled, it's voluminous cry reverberating through the dank cell.

"God, Creator and Defender of the human race," he prayed slowly and reverently, paying the monster before him no heed, "look down in pity on this, Your servant, Theodore Alexander Flanders, now trapped in the coils-"

The thing was now looking at Martin. Trembling, the child slowly turned his head. The thing grinned, and looked down at it's arm. Martin looked, and saw a long, tumorous bulge travel up and down it's arm. It traveled up into the shoulder, and down into the chest. The ribcage pulsed and swelled.

"-of man's ancient enemy, sworn foe of our race…next page, Martin. Martin?"

Martin shuddered and quickly turned to the next page, tearing the fragile paper in his haste.

O'Flaherty continued, never once looking at the beast, despite it's howling and taunting and shrieking his name.

"Save your servant, who trusts in you, my God,

Let him find in You a fortified tower in the face of the enemy."

He continued his reading. There was the sound of flapping wings. Both boys looked, and saw, perched on the head board, an ancient white owl. It's eyes were like red water, and it looked down upon them with hunger. Upon it's head was a golden crown. It howled, and shrieked, and rose, higher, and higher, until it's broad, sloping shoulders brushed the ceiling. It now stood erect atop it's tree-like legs. It stared down upon them with contempt.

The spectre vanished. Father O'Flaherty was tracing the sign of the cross upon the child's clammy brow.

"Almighty, Everlasting God,

Who sent Your Only Begotten Son into the world to crush that roaring lion,

To snatch from ruination and from the clutches of the noon-day devil this human being made in your image-"

The skin on Todd's face grew taught. Hideous, purple blotches appeared, and began to swell and quiver. A bubbling, frothing foam oozed forth from his open mouth. There was a nasty, unpleasant squelching, and the noisome stench grew.

"Drive out the persecutor of the innocent-"

A red, shivering light filled the room. The walls shivered like liquid glass, and began to curl and ebb like waves of flame. Martin saw dark objects being cast about in the flame. People. Screaming, naked people, their fingers worn to the bone, as though they had claws. They had dark, staring, lidless eyes. Skin, black and peeling off. They cried and moaned. Their screams and moans filled the room. Todd lay laughing, chortling in his throat. Amongst the people were now creatures, looking as though they were molten bronze and living ink. Theirs were hideous and deformed shapes, like beast-men and unknown creatures and things that dwell in the depths of the sea.

The ritual continued for several days. Bart and Martin would stay with the father for only a few hours at a time, then Seamus or Homer or Kearney would take their place while they showered and rested. Father O'Flaherty pushed on, not resting for three whole days, after which he showered, slept for an hour, before resuming the fight.

The days stretched and blended into a week. Then weeks. Teary, red-eyed weeks. Todd's figure grew paler and more emaciated with each passing day. He ate nothing. Only vomited. Green, wretched bile, streaked with thin, watery blood. At one point, Todd spoke, in his own voice. His voice was weak and raspy. He begged to be killed.

It was the twenty-first hour of the twenty-first day. Father O'Flaherty, thinned and careworn, continued to perform the exorcism. Bart, Homer, and Ned Flanders were in the room with him.

The pages of the _Rituale Romanum_ were wrinkled with sweat, and torn from frequent, hurried turning. The creature in the bed was moaning, it's head lolling back and forth.

"In the name of Jesus Christ, I expel thee, fell demon,"

"Aaaah-ahhh-AH-ah!"

"In the name of _Jesus Christ, _I _expel thee!"_

The monster moaned and arched it's back, it's breathe gurgling in it's throat, tears trickling from it's closed eyes.

"**_In the name of Jesus Christ-!"_**

The thing gave a shrill squawk. Then, a strange gurgling was heard. Blood splattered out of it's nose as it exhaled. It opened it's mouth. For a moment, there was a deep, resounding note. Then blood, thick, red blood, came shooting up from it's mouth. Tears of blood spilled from it's eyes in small streams. The stream ceased; blood was dripping from the ceiling, falling on the pages of the _Ritual_. The bed began to shake violently.

The eyes flashed, brilliant, smoldering, red. The straps snapped like taffy, and the thing turned upon the three. Homer squealed like a woman.

The door flew open as three security guards rushed in. The thing turned and growled. One guard dropped: every blood vessel in his brain had opened. Another was flung into the wall as he tried to grab his arm.

The third guard fired his tazer. The beast screamed as the barbs struck his skin, and hot waves coursed through the boy's body. It threw it's head back and screamed. The _Ritual_, which Father O'Flaherty had continued to read from, flew from his hands and burst into flames.

The window shattered, and the sharp chunks pierced the guard's eyes. Bart was tossed like a rag doll. Homer charged, bellowing like a rhinocerous. The thing struck him across the head and sent him flying. The priest continued to pray. The demon glared at him.

His arms were pulled out straight. He was flung against the wall. The skin began to split along his scalp.

A single, crystalline note pierced the darkness. The creature gave a frightened yelp, and flopped flat on the bed. The priest slid down the wall, blood stinging his eyes. Homer, rubbing his head, looked up.

The walls, the bed, the room, the dead guards…all had vanished. The world was a gray haze, and Todd was floating in the air, arms spread in cruciform. A single beam of light fell upon him.

He seamed to be made of moist, white earth. Thick, black vines sprouted from him, and covered his surface.

"The light can not reach him now."

Father O'Flaherty, Homer, and Bart all looked to see who had said it. A small child, clad in white, stood by Todd. The child looked to the priest, and examined him. He looked at his face, then his Roman collar, then his face again.

"Will you clear them?"

The priest felt something being pressed in his hand. It was a pruning hook, made of gold.

The light flashed, and the vines vanished. Todd's body became as glass, and within him, there were moving things.

In his head, there was a sparkling mist. But a blackness slowly overtook it. In his chest, there was a small, trembling form, with a face like Todd's. It seemed to be made of water. In it were several tiny black specs, which swirled and spread throughout him, like dye in a glass. It screamed, for it was in pain. A large, black animal, so black that only it's shape, that of an enormous owl, could be seen, was preying on it, biting and pecking.

The three were distracted by the strange vision by the sound of a battle. The small child, wielding a tiny sword, as fighting with something in the shadows. The creature hopped about fitfully, dodging the child's blows, and attempting to impale him with a long, thin spear.

There was a burst of noise, like the end of the world, and behind them, they saw a brilliant figure of a proud and mighty warrior.

He, or rather, the figure, for neither male nor female are his kind, knelt before a man in plain, brown robes. He was saying something, but they could not understand his tongue. He stood, now shinning more brightly than ever. The man in simple peasant's clothes looked at him, and produced from nothing a fiery sword and glittering shield. The warrior knelt once more, then rose and accepted them. The man set one hand on the warrior's shoulder, then turned to look at the three men watching the strange seen. They turned and shielded their eyes, for his face was brighter than the sun, and his eyes as piercing as swords. They felt his white gaze upon him, and all felt naked and ashamed. The figure turned, looked once more at the warrior, then pointed towards the young boy still floating in midair.

The warrior flew, with wings as great as an eagle and white as the snow in moonlight, and landed beside the young the golden-haired youth who was battling the creature. The youth saw him and gasped. The warrior smiled upon the lad but briefly, then drew the mighty sword. It lit the room with a cool, piercing radiance, and the small pixie that was trembling in the corner vanished in a puff of smoke.

The warrior and the boy turned towards Todd. The warrior spread his wings, as did the young boy, and they flew straight into the child as though he was a cloud. Together, they charged the beast. Long did they fight.

As Bart and his father watched the strange and unearthly proceedings, the priest was distracted by a strange and terrible sound. It was like music, yet was not, for it was infinitely more beautiful. The sound was at once alien and familiar to him, and it caused his heart to leap and his mind to soar. He turned, and saw that it had come from the figure in the simple peasant's robes. The figure now raised him right hand, and the priest saw at once a red, gaping hole in his palm. The figure nodded towards the boy. O'Flahery understood, and turned toward the boy, right hand raised. From the figure's hand came a light; it passed through the priest's raised hand, and fell upon the boy.

Thick, black smoke issued from his mouth and nostrils, and coagulated, congealed into the spectre: the long-legged owl, Stolas, the Archdemon.

The warrior and the young lad stood opposite from the demon. The warrior held his sword high, ready to strike. The demon blanched, turning away.

A wall of flames erupted the side opposite from the brilliant figure. From it emerged an assortment of strange and horrific entities. Amongst them was Baal, his many mouths gaping. Astaroth, in the form of a man with a peacock's tail and an ass' head. Pazuzu, with it's toothy grin and tattered wings. Buer, with five legs and a lion's tail. A dark, exotic woman appeared. She was nude, and positively radiant. The priest looked at her briefly, then averted his eyes. Homer stared at her transfixed by her radiant beauty. She saw him, and smiled. Bu then, her smile grew cruel and frightening. Her skin became brick red, and several extra arms appeared. Her teeth grew until they hung from her mouth; around her neck was a garland of skulls. Homer shrieked. Again her shape changed. She yet again appeared as a gorgeous nude, but absent was her innocent guile, replaced with wantonness and cruelty. Black, scaly wings sprouted from her shoulders, and her vampiric fangs gleamed in the firelight. She was the demon Succubus.

Now came a great and frightening form. A great man, a prince, clad in black satin, with silver rings and silver chains, strode though the flames. Beside him was a large, black dog, with three heads and a dragon's tail.

He stopped before the grim and ghastly assembly. He called out, in a deep, echoing voice. His strange, foreign tongue was harsh and unpleasant. All the demons looked about, then, reluctantly, trembling with fear, a small goblin came forth. It was the one that had been battling the small child. It was Todd's tempter. With a motion like a hen catching a worm, the dark prince snatched the small sprite in his talon-like fingers and dangled it above his head. He opened his mouth. A small, hideous worm rose from his throat. At it's end, a spike-filled mouth opened. The creature squeaked. It cried and pleaded with the grim prince. He released his hold. The gremlin was sucked down his throat.

He turned towards the Ancient Owl. It shook atop it's stilt-like legs. He brought his arm across his chest, as though to strike it, but turned away.

He approached the child, still floating in mid-air. He reached out, his hand looking not unlike the gnarled claws of a vulture. The warrior snatched him around the wrist. He recoiled, breaking free of his grasp. He looked at the warrior, his lip curled in a sneer. The warrior looked back, his face impassive. The prince drew a sharp, curved scimitar, and tried to strike the warrior. His blow broke upon his golden shield. The white blade shot forth, and struck home in the prince's left breast. The demons cried and wailed. Many began to flee. A white, blindingly brilliant light was filling the room. The figure, His peasant's robes now replaced with glittering, jeweled robes, was filling the room with his brilliance. The light came like a wave: starting at the King, then rolling forth, over the three men and over the boy, and crashing over the dark man. He cast aside his sword. He reached out, his lips moving as though he were speaking. The King shed a great, glorious tear, then shook His head. Another wave came. The prince was on his knees now, pleading. The wave hit. All his dark vestments vanished. He no longer looked great or frightening, but old, crippled, and sad. Grey, broken, half-plucked wings came from his back. The King gave a command, and the warrior took his sword and plunged it into the black prince's heart.

Dawn. Pure, Brilliant Dawn! Father O'Flaherty looked about. He was in a hospital bed. As he tried to stand, he heard a crack coming from his lower back and felt the painful pull of an IV line.

"Careful now, Father!" said Seamus' familiar voice.

The priest, not hearing his old friend's admonition, tried to climb over the bed.

"I've got tuh go! Me God! The boy! The ritual!"

"Shh…" came Marge's voice, "Father, don't you remember?"

"What? What's happened? Where…?"  
"Don't you remember?"

"What?"

"Ye did i'! Ach, Father!" laughed Seamus, hitting the priest with his woolen cap.

"The boy?"

"He's down the hall."

Without waiting a second longer, Father O'Flaherty climbed out of bed, grabbed the IV stand, and dashed down the sunlit hall. He looked in each room. Finally, he found him.

He had oxygen tubes in his nose, and a feeding tube was hooked into his stomach. Though sickly and thin, his skin was now a healthy, normal hue. His father knelt by the bedside, holding his hand. The boy moved his head weakly, and forced open his eyes. They were brown, and watery. He saw the priest. He smiled. His head lolled, and he slept.


	17. Epilogue

Chapter Eighteen: Losses, and Changes

Todd Flanders pled guilty on all charges. He claimed to have seen the light, and through himself at the mercy of the court. Nine psychiatrists had examined him; six of the nine said that he was a perfectly normal young boy, with no paraphilias or social diseases. A polygraph showed that, as far as it could measure, he was perfectly honest when he said that he was sorry for his actions. Father O'Flaherty, Bart Simpson, Martin Prince, the Bishop, and Seamus all testified that, as the Bishop phrased it, "The Flanders child met the Roman Catholic Church's strict criteria for the Ritual of Exorcism, and that the ritual was performed, and, as far as we can discern, the ritual was successful." Brain scans: normal. Luckily, the appellate judge was not just a faithful Catholic, but also a cousin of Judge Snyder. A "writ of things-are-goin'-on-here-that-are-beyond-our-comprehension" was declared, and Todd was punished with a fine of twenty-five thousand dollars, two-hundred and forty hours of community service, was placed on probation, and had to make an apology to every family he had harmed. Considering that he was facing the death penalty, he got off easy.

After he finished his sentences, Todd, after much discussion with his father, and Father O'Flaherty, filed for emancipation, which was granted. He left town. It was for the best, he had said, for, regardless of what had been accomplished, he felt that he would never again be clean. The town, he said, could never again trust him

It was a brisk Autumn day. The night loomed. The sun was fleeing. Bart rode his bike down the streets. The air was filled with excitement, for the Night of All Hallows' Eve was a week away, and the feasts of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years were but months away.

He rode down the familiar streets in the daring light. He watched as the houses grew in size, and the streets became wider. Soon, they were lined with tall, ancient trees, whose leaves looked aflame in the dusk.

He came to the house he had set out to see. But something was wrong. A moving van was parked in front of the house, and clumsy teenage movers were struggling with a couch. He saw Jessica standing by the garage, looking down at her feet.

"Hi Bart…" she said half-heartedly.

"Jess, what's goin' on?"

"We're moving, Bart. Mom's sending me to boarding school in Maryland."

"Way the hell Back East? Why?"

"She said that it's the only way to save me. She's gonna live with her parents in Philadelphia."

"Jess…"

"Bart…would you…could you take a bike ride with me through the park? One last time…"

He nodded. She ran and fetched her old pink Schwinn from the garage. They road off together.

(Cat Stevens' "Joanie", a.k.a. "Wild World", plays in background for following scene.")

The rode through the park. They watched the ducks as the paddled lazily about, meandering back to their nests for the night. They sat on a wooden bench and watched as the children played on the sand, oblivious to the evils of the world, the evils they both new so well. Bart ran and got them both some ice cream. They ate it in silence. As a couple of horribly obese joggers came tromping by, they laughed as they paused and stared longingly at their ice cream and trim, young figures. They went and got sodas at the Kwik-E-Mart, then sat and loitered in front of the old "No Loitering" sign.

They went to the tree at the edge of town. They searched it's gnarled base for their old signature. Amongst all the carvings and initials they found 'Bart n' Jessica', carved inside a crude heart. It was faded now, it's edges lost amongst the countless other hearts carved on the old tree. Bart took his penknife, and traced the lines of the heart and the initials until they looked as though they were carved in shadow in the dim red light. He paused, and looked at Jessica. She smiled. Then, feeling bold and young, he added "4EVR" under their initials, scraping and driving the knife deep into the skin's wrinkled skin.

He stood back, admiring his handiwork, his labor of love undying. He looked at Jessica, who patted the soft grass beside her. He sat with her for what seemed an eternity, watching the sun set, listening to the throb of the city. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Bart…I love you, Bart." She whispered, her voice trembling with pain.

He looked at her. Absent from her eyes was all the malice, all the greed, and the lust and the desire to take, and seize, and make hers. Only sincerity and sadness was there.

"But…Bart, it just can't be…Oh Bart, I'm so sorry."

"Jessica…no…"

"Bart, no, it's my fault. I ruined myself. We were meant for each other, but Todd…Rod…I gave something…I…" and her voice trailed off, breaking.

"Jess, listen…"

"Bart, I'm damaged goods! I'm ugly! I'm ruined. I…I'm just no good…no good for you. You can't save me Bart, and I can only hurt you. I have to live with what I've made myself."

"Jessica, if there ever was an adult I've listened to, it's Father O'Flaherty. And I he told me, he said that God forgives."

"He forgives, but he doesn't shelter you from the consequences of what you've done. Bart, this is what I get. I'm leaving Springfield, leaving my friends, and all I love. It's for the best."

"Jess…I…"

There was nothing left for either to say. He placed his arm around her young shoulder. She leaned against him. They watched as the sun sank into the sea. Thus, all must come to an end. They watched, silent, empty tears fell, till the sun had finally set. It was the last sunset they would see together as children.

They rode back to house, knowing that they had to return, and for it they hated the sight of it. The van was filled, and was now locked. The house was empty and dark.

"Mom still must be at Moe's."

"What's she doin' there?"

"Well, with my dad dead, everything I've done, and us leaving in the morning, she has nothing more to lose."

A light shone on their faces; a taxi had come around the corner. It stopped in front of the house. The driver got out and helped the rather pissed (in the British sense) Mrs. Lovejoy of his now quite-soiled backseat.

"Wow, watch it now, jeez, lady."

"And that…Marge Simpson…she has webbed toes, you know that?"

Jessica cast an embarrassed look at Bart. She sighed and went to unlock the door. As Mrs. Lovejoy staggered up to the door, Jessica cast a longing look at Bart. He waved. She waved back. The door closed.

Bart awoke the next day_. It's Saturday_, he remembered, _I can sleep some more_. Then, with a start, he remembered Jessica. He ripped off his PJs, put on his clothes that he had left on the floor from the night before, and charged down the stairs. He dashed into the garage, grabbed his bike, and pedaled madly down the street.

It seemed to take an eternity, but Jessica's house was in sight. A car pulled out of the driveway.

"NO!"

He saw Jessica in the back seat. He pedaled as hard as his legs would permit. The gears of the bike were whining.

"Jessica! JESSICA!"

She heard him, or sensed him. She turned, and saw him. She rolled down he window.

"Jessica!"

"Good-bye, Bart…"

And she was gone. Bart hit a sinkhole and fell, scraping his arms.

"Aw, shit!" he said as he cradled his injured arm. Something brought his attention to the small slip of paper that was slowly flipping through the air. He snatched it, and infolded it.

"Dear Bart,

I wish that I had not caused you so much grief. If I had only realized who you were, and what you meant to me, I would have never done any of this. I will always love you.

All My Love,

Jessica

P.S.: Here's where I'll be staying, and how you can reach me…

Bart kissed the letter, then folded it reverently and placed it in his pocket. He picked up his bike, and paused, watching a flock of geese on their way south. He looked at his watch. _First Saturday of October,_ he thought. He checked the time. 7:30. _I can still make it to Mass…_

THE END


End file.
